Ælfen Rain
by AshlarKithkanan
Summary: AU    Alfred is curious about the boy in the rain. Rated T for violence, death and some angst.
1. Chapter 1: Gloaming

**Title:**Ælfen Rain  
**Genre:** AU, Romance, Adventure, Supernatural  
**Pairing(s):** USxUK  
**Rating:** PG, may go up in further chapters  
**Warnings:**use of human names (because it's AU), dark themes in further chapters  
Summary: Alfred is curious about the boy in the rain.

He only ever saw him when it rains. Walking, head down low, trudging on the muddy road east towards the village beyond the forest, or sometimes north towards the bus stop. Early morning or in the twilight. Every single time it rains.

Alfred fancies, he could almost be a traveler from another world, moving slowly in the mist and rain, complete with cloak, bows and arrows, headed home after a hunt. But of course it can only be his imagination. The boy is wearing a dark blue school uniform, complete with green striped tie and polished shoes. Sometimes, he can see the raindrops and flecks of mud just slide off those shoes. He has never actually seen his face though, something about him makes Alfred look away to the side, to the ground or anywhere else but at him.

Perhaps it's because he looked so sharp and well dressed in the distance, despite the fact that he is walking in the downpour and getting soaked. He's probably from one of those snotty exclusive all-boys schools that are so popular in this stuffy British country. Alfred missed the noise, bustle and color of his high school back home in Los Angeles. He missed the sunshine and the entertainment. If he were back home, bored and looking out his classroom window, he could see the sun shining on the Pacific ocean and the sand would be glittering. Girls would be playing in tiny bikinis and guys would be surfing and...

"Ahem..!" the old stodgy person speaking in front of the class cleared his throat loudly, "Are you alright Mister Jones?"

The class tittered softly as Alfred pasted a plastic smile on his face and answered in negative. He was bored, bored, bored. The sounds of the rain hitting windowpane made a soothing melody conducive to sleep. The only way to stay awake was to keep himself entertained. And the only thing currently entertaining to him, is the mystery of that boy in the rain.

He leans his forehead on the cold classroom window. The plink plink plink of the raindrops hitting the glass softly echoes to vibrations onto his forehead and the fingertips he rested against the windowpane. He idly wonders what the other boy is doing. Is he also staring out the window of his classroom waiting for the final bell to ring? Does he even own an umbrella?

A figure passed by the gate of the school, choppy blonde hair glowing starkly amidst the pallid grey of the rain and pavement. Alfred straightened up with anticipation. He craned his neck to follow the figure until it vanished in the mist. "No umbrella then, as usual." he thought.

A sliver of disappointment passed through him as he realized he would no longer be able to see the other boy for a while. The weather forecast for the next few days was "Sunny". He impatiently went back to waiting for the bell to ring, suddenly gripped by the urge to talk to the boy. To make the other _notice_ him.

In all the times they had passed by each other in the rain, or even sometimes walked in the same direction, never had he been noticed. His friendly greetings were all ignored, and he has been too intimidated by the fierce scowl and cold aura emanating from him to persist in greeting him.

He felt invisible. Like he couldn't be seen nor heard by the person who is now so familiar to him. And that bothered him, it's his brother's specialty, not his. No one ignores the hero! Even when his brother and him just arrived from the US and transferred to this school, all the other students and teachers welcomed him with open arms. Their neighbors were very friendly and responsive to his smiles and antics. Even the creepy old people who lived in that mansion from across the street with their grandson, who happened to be their French teacher. Everyone likes Alfred F. Jones!

So why? What's wrong with him in the eyes of that scary not-stranger who also walks on his way home during the rains? Is it because he's American? But the British girls love American boys (or so he's been told), and could it be the way he dresses? (He's not exchanging his antique bomber jacket for anything!) Was he too loud when he was walking with him? Did he find him ugly?

**_*Rrrrriiiinnngggggggg*_**

"Finally!" he cheered exuberantly and shot out of his chair.

He noticed that everyone had stopped whatever they were doing and looked at him. You can almost hear a pin drop after his rather loud exclamation.

"Ahahahah... I'm just reeeally looking forward to my Mom's cooking. She's making toad-in-a-hole for dinner tonight..."

"Ah yes, give our regards to your mother then Mister Jones," the portly professor said in dismissal, while some girls giggled quietly at his behavior. "Homework shall be passed when classes resume after Halloween."

And with that, Alfred ran off into the rain, not minding the fog in his glasses nor the cool drops running down his face. Of course he's not ugly. He may be loud, and brash and most definitely American (he almost went green at the thought of the excuse he made up, toad-in-a-hole sounds yucky) but he knows that he has the power of Charm! And truth, and justice so surely friendship will follow!

The other boy must be so grumpy because he doesn't have any friends. (And an umbrella to shield him from the rain.) But Alfred is heroic enough to rise up to the challenge and befriend him. After all, they already share the same road home, why not share something more?

~~  
A/N: yay! This is my first time publishing a USxUK fanfic here.


	2. Chapter 2: Lyfthelm

Chapter 2: Lyfthelm

Alfred was disappointed when he arrived at the crossroads. There was no sign of the other boy. He swiveled back and forth between the east and north fork, hoping to catch a glimpse of unruly blond hair or the dark blue uniform.

Something flickered on the edge of his vision to the west road, a whisper of sadness, a hint of red. And just as soon as he turned his head towards it, it was gone. He took a hesitant step towards it, he had never been down the west road before. He does not know where it leads, although his grandmother had always warned him not to explore the old dark woods. One could get easily lost in there, especially this close to Samhain. Whatever that meant.

But something tells him that the other boy is in that direction. He can almost smell his presence in the air. A vague hint of roses and ocean mist, a surprising fragrance in the middle of a country forest. _Must be an expensive cologne that his rich and snotty parents got him,_ Alfred scoffed.

Before he knew it, he was taking hesitant steps in the western direction. There were huge trees forming a dark canopy of branches over the road. It's more of a path really, vines and shrubs had already taken over the sides of the road and the ground itself is carpeted by the fallen leaves.

Silent steps brought him to a break in the trees, and there surprisingly, was a river with an old wrought-iron bench at its shore. And on the bench, was the other boy.

He was reading out loud from the book in his lap. His voice is rich and hypnotic, intonations rising and falling like waves on a distant shore. There was a small smile on his face as he read, eyes lovingly passing through the passages, long elegant fingers loosely supporting the leather cover of the book.

Alfred is entranced. Dropping his backpack on a convenient root, he unconsciously took a step forward, then another and another until he was standing right in front of the boy. And still the boy kept on reading.

He smelled even better up close, looked even better up close. And is also more annoying up close. He was right in front of his face and he wouldn't even look at Alfred!

Casually, he plucked the book from the other boy's loose grasp.

Immediately, fiery green eyes snapped up to his face, a familiar massive scowl forming on the pale face.

Green. His eyes were so green. Alfred wasn't one for metaphors nor pretty words, but he can understand why poets often compare eyes to jewels. And these were emeralds.

The other boy violently grabbed the book back from his hold. He stood up, _Oh hey! I'm taller than he is!_ he triumphantly thought, before a fist slammed right into his cheek.

"What the hell?" he yelled angrily, throwing an arm up as another punch was aimed at his face. Eyes narrowing in anger, he shoved the other a bit, "I was just being friendly!"

"…" was the response of the boy, before he launched himself back at Alfred. Fists flailing, they went down to the ground in a heap, punching and kicking. Elbows were shoved into ribs and once they even accidentally head-butted each other. Alfred was cursing all the time, but never did he hear a peep from his opponent. _Maybe he's mute?_ He thought in confusion, but he had just heard him reading from a book.

Abruptly, he felt the ground give way underneath them, and suddenly they were plunged into the icy water of the river. Dead leaves and silt were kicked up and with a sinking feeling, Alfred knew he was such in trouble when he got home.

Gasping for breath in the cold autumn air, he looked around for the other boy. And found those green eyes staring calmly back at him from the riverbank. Attempting to stand up in the muddy water is difficult, the silt and mud at the bottom sucked down his shoes and threw him off balance.

And then he was there, grasping the closest one of Alfred's outstretched arms and roughly pulling him onto the shore beside him.

Lying on the grass, he struggled to catch his breath. His clothes and shoes are wet and it's already late, the sun is setting behind the trees. He's going to be shivering in a few moments. He turned his head to the side where the other boy is sitting, staring out into the river with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Oh, hey, um, I'm Alfred. Alfred F. Jones! Pleased to meet you!," he reached over and offered his hand.

Green eyes blinked and then stared at him in surprise, as though he had forgotten that Alfred was there beside him.

_Jeeze, maybe he has Alzheimer's or something. And he's mute too!_ Alfred started to feel sorry for him. He looked to be about his age, maybe even a bit younger despite his stiff and haughty demeanor, not to mention his old-people-like behavior. Maybe he really is an old man, old people were deaf too.

Arm aching from holding it aloft for too long, he captured one of the other's hands and traced his name onto the palm, looking at his face expectantly for any traces of understanding.

Abruptly, he pulled back his hand as though he had been burned and hissed loudly, "Git!" before standing up and stomping off in a huff.

Surprised at the sudden curse, and delighted that the other boy had spoken to him, even though it's just a single syllable swear word, he broke up into laughter. Hands clutching at his sides and rolling on the damp grass.

Finally, his laughter ceased, and he stood up and looked around for the other's presence. There was no one else left in the riverbank but him, but he had kinda expected that after the Brit's reaction to his introduction.

He started walking back towards the road. Suddenly, there it is again, the sudden flicker of red just on the periphery of his vision. And he saw it, a massive gnarly thorn bush just beside the iron bench where the other boy was sitting before. He vaguely wondered why he didn't notice it earlier. The drop of red he saw was a single rose petal lying on the bench where the rosebush had formed an arch over it. Almost like a bower.

Alfred scratched his head. Seriously, why didn't he notice it before? The rosebush was _**big**_. He couldn't have been that entranced by the way the boy was reading. He noticed the book lying on the ground almost under the bench and picked it up.

Arthur Kirkland. The name was etched in elegant script on the fine leather cover of the book.

Alfred grinned widely. He can't just leave such a valuable book out there on the riverbank. It might rain again tonight. With that thought, he tucked the book into his backpack.

Whistling cheerfully, he marched straight out to the road and back to the crossroads. Where he stopped dead in his tracks. The boy, Arthur Kirkland, he presumed, was standing just on the edge of the leafy canopy of the west road. Waiting for him. And beyond him a thick blanket of fog covered the ground.

"Well then," he said impatiently in a posh sounding accent, "Come along, you might get lost in the fog by yourself."

Bemused at the sudden change in demeanor, but glad nonetheless, Alfred happily bounded to where the other boy waited.

The mist swirled around them, soft white ribbons and damp grey feathery arms reached from the edges of the road.

The fog rolled into the west road, and it was lost to their sight. The road ahead was as clear as his grandmother's cream of mushroom soup, but Alfred was glad that Arthur seemed to know where he was headed. The walk towards the bus stop was fast, and though Arthur never responded to all his attempts in conversation, he was happy enough to note that he was getting reactions in the form of annoyed twitches of his massive eyebrows and endeavors to walk faster away from him (the latter usually fails because Alfred has longer legs and can catch-up to him easily).

Finally they arrived at the bus stop, the rain was falling softly there. Feeling it fall on his face, it brought up the question of why he only ever sees him when it rains. He turned his head to ask him, but at that moment his bus arrived.

Arthur practically shoved him inside the bus. He scrambled to a window seat and waved goodbye enthusiastically. He ignored the stares and whispers coming from the other passengers and focused on keeping Arthur in sight.

Arthur, who was staring back at him with those green, green eyes. _Is it normal for people to have eyes that are almost radioactive in color?_ Then the fog and mist enveloped the tiny bus stop, and Arthur was lost to his view.

A/N

The title of this chapter means rain mist fog in Old English.


	3. Chapter 3: Eventide

Chapter 3: Eventide

Alfred walked as stealthily as he could along the path leading to the backdoor of his house. He hoped his grandmother hadn't started cooking yet and he wouldn't get caught. His socks squelched uncomfortably in his shoes and he can still feel twigs clinging to his hair. Taking a deep breath, he gently opened the door into the kitchen.

It was dark, which was a good thing. Even the hallway bulb wasn't lit yet. He could hear faint voices coming from the sitting room, three of them. He presumed both Mattie and his grandmother were there entertaining a visitor.

He took off his wet shoes and socks, dropped down into a crouch and began to stealthily creep along the wall towards the stairs. The Mission Impossible theme playing in his head, he decided to flop down into a belly crawl as he approached the door to the sitting room. A few more wiggles and he could reach the safety of the stairs and his bedroom.

"**Alfred F. Jones**!" his grandmother's voice rang sharply to his right. Wincing at the tone, he slowly looked up and saw her glaring down at him, made even more intimidating by the light coming from behind her.

"When are you going to act your age instead of your shoe size?" she glared at him sternly and shook a finger at him. "Oh my Lord! What the bloody hell did you do to our floor?"

He blinked up at her in confusion and slowly followed the direction of her finger until he noticed that he had left behind a wet trail on the carpet, and most probably also on the kitchen floor.

Dropping his eyes to the floor in what he hoped was a repentant gesture, he frantically tried to think of a way to wiggle out of the situation. He saw Mattie behind his grandmother, talking animatedly in _French_ to his well, French teacher.

_When in doubt_… He stood up and took a deep breath, "I'm really sorry Gran, I was trying not to disturb you… I got caught in the rain on the way home." He flashed his baby blue eyes at her beseechingly. _Use puppy eyes._

He shivered and continued with his teeth chattering slightly, "I'll clean that up Gran, I promise. I'm reeeaally reeaalllyy sorry Granny…. I'll never do it again." He batted his eyelashes at her and continued shivering and looking dejected.

He looked at her sideways from under his lashes, and he could already see her eyes softening a just a tiny bit. _All right! It worked!_

"Very well," she sniffed, "Go on and change from your wet clothes, we are having dinner at the Bonnefroy's. Wear something nice, Matthew is ready to go, and I am not introducing you to our guest in your state."

"Awesome! You're the best Gran!" he cheered, swooping in to drop a kiss on her dry cheek before running up the stairs.

When he came down dressed in his best jeans and a button-down shirt, they were already sitting on the porch waiting for him. As they started walking towards the end of the street, his grandmother fussed over Mattie's scarf so it was up to Alfred to start a conversation.

"So Mr. Bonnefroy, what's the occasion?" he asked brightly, long strides bringing him to walk beside the teacher.

"Oh, my son is home this weekend," he replied. "He works in France but during Samhain he makes it a point to come home. He's cooking for us tonight."

"That's wonderful! So he can cook French dishes?" Alfred asked enthusiastically.

His teacher laughed, Alfred had not made any attempt to hide his disgust at the British cuisine that was served at school, and most of the time at his house. "Yes, he most certainly can."

"That's awesome! So what's he like?"

Mr. Bonnefroy's eyes crinkled at the corners as he told Alfred about his son. He and his wife had a divorce when Francis was only 10 years old. Since his wife had just started her couture business at that time, it was decided that he was to come with Mr. Bonnefroy when he moved to the UK to recover from the failed marriage.

"My parents had already moved here during the World War, so we just moved in with them and I started teaching at the school. We were happy here, Francis and I. But then…"

"But then?" Alfred prompted, now curious about this Francis character.

"He lost his best friend when he was nineteen. It was a tragedy. No one expected it to happen, he was so young and brilliant." he continued mournfully. "Francis was broken-hearted. He cannot bear to be here without his friend. He was severely depressed for months."

There was nothing for Alfred to say but, "I'm really sorry Mr., Bonnefroy."

Sad eyes gazed towards the brightly lit windows of the mansion. "If you talk with him, please do not mention his friend. He… He still reacts negatively to that topic."

"O-ok Mr. Bonnefroy." Alfred was dispirited by the story. In an effort to change the subject, he asked, "Um, so why does he come home during Sowing? Is that like a celebration of some sort? What is it anyway?"

"It's usually pronounced as Sow-in." Mr. Bonnefroy replied patiently. "It is spelled as S-a-m-h-a-i-n and it's an ancient festival held on the 31st of October to the 1st of November. The old people say it's when the barrier between our world and the Otherworld is at the thinnest. In modern times, people usually call it Halloween."

"Really? That's so cool! He comes here to celebrate Halloween? Is the Halloween in France that lame?" he was practically bouncing in excitement at the mention of Halloween. _Costumes! Candy! Trick or treats!_ Though Mattie would probably protest at being dragged around for trick or treating, he would say that they're too old for it.

In the deepening shadows of the evening, Mr. Bonnefroy's eyes were serious when he turned and faced him.

"No Alfred, Samhain was when his best friend died."

A/N: Eventide is another word for "nighfall".

I hope you don't mind that I didn't bother to uh, put emphasis on accents. That would take too much trouble, the only French person I know speaks perfect English.

In regards to age, Alfred here is 17 and Francis is 24. In the manga, Alfred is 19, Arthur is 23 and Francis is 26. Alfred and Francis' age gap is 7 years. Matthew is younger, so let's just presume he's 16 in this story.


	4. Chapter 4: Wéatácen

Chapter 4: **Wéatácen**

Alfred was subdued all throughout dinner. During the introductions he was unexpectedly polite and gracious. He ate quietly and listened intently to Francis as the latter talked with the others. He didn't even bat an eyelash when Francis kissed his Gran's hand and proceeded to flirt with her (and eventually, Mattie and him). He merely smiled and kept eating when Francis called him a "magnifique specimen of a boy" and proceeded to grope him.

Even Mr. Bonnefoy was concerned over his behaviour and asked him if he was alright. His mind too preoccupied, he barely even heard his Gran answer for him, saying that he had gotten caught in the rain earlier and may be sick.

He wondered how it felt to lose a close friend. How much it hurt. He didn't really have any close friends. He knew he was popular, that a lot of people liked him despite the fact that he was new and American (yes, he had found out by accident that British people apparently disliked Americans), but aside from his brother and Gran, he had no one else he felt really close to. Not even back home in America.

In a way, he felt jealous of Francis. He had a best friend for a whole nine years. And yeah it sucked that the best friend died, but Alfred could bet that the nine years were awesome. He wondered if he could ever have a friendship like that. Vivid green eyes set on a pale face flashed through his mind's eye and he smiled slightly. _Perhaps he could have a best friend now. _Even if said friend was most likely the grumpiest boy in the entire country.

It's not like Arthur can escape him so easily in such a small village. And besides, he remembered with glee, the other boy had even walked him to the bus stop. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, he was sure of it!

Feeling revived by the conclusion reached in his mind, _Arthur such is such an awesome best friend! He could cheer me up even when he's not here_, he went back to observing Francis.

The boy, (man?) was so smooth and debonair in his movements. Alfred couldn't detect any hints of grief nor sadness. He wondered if perhaps Mr. Bonnefoy was more affected by the death of the unnamed boy than his son was.

Francis was telling his grandmother about the autumn fashion shows that were held just before he came home. He said his mother's couture line was doing well and he had moved to being one of the managers of the line. He proudly showed them a several photographs of models wearing some of his designs. Upon Gran's insistence they all went to the second floor drawing room where he modelled for them some of the designs he made himself in the last fashion show that his mother had allowed to be included.

When he saw Francis strutting like a peacock wearing a ridiculously feathery polo-shirt and incredibly tight leather jeans in front of his Gran, Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Bonnefoy's grandparents, (_Man! They're ancient!_) and Mattie, he rolled his eyes in contempt.

"Gaaayyy..." he muttered under his breath until Mattie jabbed him with his elbow.

"Shhhh!" his brother hissed at him. "I kinda liked you better earlier when you were quiet."

"You mean invisible like you?" Alfred elbowed back jokingly.

"Shut up Al." Mattie glared at him before turning his attention back to Francis.

"Oh, I see," Alfred nodded. "You fancy him don't you?"

Mattie blushed and smacked Alfred on the back of his head. He shoved him back in retaliation and Mattie slammed his shoulder into Alfred.

"Boys?" they both stopped at the sound of their grandmother's voice.

"What are my dear grandsons doing?" her voice dripped saccharine sarcasm, eyes shooting glitters that spelled punishment for them both if they don't behave.

"Nothing Gran," Alfred replied innocently, "I was just wondering where the nearest bathroom is."

"... The toilet is on the first floor down the hallway to the right from the stairs." Gran said in a warning sort of voice before she turned back to the spectacle that was Francis who now wore a purple pinstriped suit and fedora hat. With an eye-blindingly purple feather on it.

Alfred contemplated the scene for a moment, and concluded that Francis kinda looked good in the suit. It was just ruined by the stupid feather.

On his way back to the stairs, and the mini-fashion show in the drawing room, he noticed a dark hallway leading to an unlit room overlooking the back garden. The room had massive crystal glass windows framed by luxurious velvet curtains which cascaded to the floor.

Curiosity led him closer to the window. The garden, dark under the night sky, stretched out into the fog rolling gently from the hillside. He opened one of the windows and was immediately assaulted by the thick and cloying scent of roses. A multitude of blooms nodded their heads sleepily in the evening breeze. The muted colours of the roses seemed surreal under the stark light of the half-moon in the sky. _It's a rose garden_, he thought hazily, enchanted by their number and the heady smell of flowers.

A faint whisper joined the rustling of the roses as the wind abruptly picked up and a swirl of blood red petals drifted across the open window. He dreamily noticed that the petals landed on a path winding through the garden and led away to the fog beyond.

Movement caught his eye and he could just barely see a familiar figure striding through the mist into the darkness. He squinted and leaned out of the window. Yep, that figure had an unruly mop of blond hair.

Feeling a grin stretch across his face, he prepared to climb out of the window and run after Arthur.

_Yes! He could get to talk to him again so soon! And it wasn't even raining!_

A hand suddenly slammed the window shut. Shocked, Alfred followed the hand to a silvery grey clad arm, and stared into Francis' face.

He seemed to be a very different person from the frivolous fashionable pervert from upstairs. His mouth was set in a firm line and his purple eyes were hard and cold. Alfred shivered from the iciness of that gaze. There was a tinge of an almost unidentifiable emotion in their depths. _Something,_ Alfred was perceptive enough to understand, _that was broken and bleeding._

What he doesn't understand was what the window or the garden had to do with the way Francis had transformed into this... Person. Summoning his mask of blithe obliviousness, he stated as sheepishly as he could, "Wow! Your house is really big Francis! I got lost on the way from the bathroom!"

"This way then, mon cher." Francis' mask of cordiality was also back in place. He even sneaked a grope at Alfred's ass when he passed by the boy. But even then, Alfred could tell it was half-hearted, and there was still a sliver of that dead coldness in his eyes.

When they arrived back in the drawing room, Mattie was talking animatedly with Mr. Bonnefoy, again in French. They were seated near the window and both were gesturing to something outside. Alfred noticed uncomfortably that the window also faced the garden. He must've been in the room below them.

"Hey Al!" Mattie called out to him enthusiastically.

Alfred frowned. A bit _**too**_ enthusiastically for someone as reserved as his brother. Then he saw the blush staining Mattie's cheeks and the wineglass in his hand.

Mattie saw where his gaze was and smirked. "Gran allowed me to have some wine because I was such a good boy."

"Graaaannn...~~" Alfred sang to his grandmother. "Can I have some wine too?~"

"I'm afraid the wine's all gone luv," Mr. Bonnefoy's grandmother informed him rather tipsily.

Alfred was horrified. First of all, his _**younger**_ brother had gotten alcohol and he had not? And secondly, is it safe for like _reaallly_ old people to get drunk? He looked around, everyone had wineglasses and he could see several empty bottles of red wine.

"You were gone for more than an hour mon cher." Francis suddenly appeared beside him with an unreadable look on his face. He gave Alfred a fresh glass and poured him the wine from the last of the bottles. Then, as abruptly as he arrived, he vanished and reappeared later in yet another outlandish piece of clothing. This time, one that made him look like a twig. An admittedly good-looking twig, but a twig nonetheless.

_An hour?_ He thought. He was barely gone ten minutes! A quick glance at the massive grandfather clock on the wall showed him the time. It was almost 10 in the evening!

He shook his head in disbelief as he made his way to where the old people were, and carefully avoided looking at Francis and the garden's direction. Though he wanted to. Look out the garden again he meant. He could hear Francis explaining to Mattie about the significance of his shirt to the concept of Autumn from the other side of the room.

He leaned on the wall beside his Gran and listened to them talking. They were in the middle of either reminiscing or gossiping about one of their neighbours. Apparently, the family in the house a hill away from the Bonnefoy's had moved to America five years ago but had kept the house. They had heard from one of the maids that the mother had strict orders to keep the place immaculately clean, most especially the room of the youngest son.

"And you know what, I heard that every year, the parents have the room decor changed to suit the age of youngest son! Or rather, what would be his age if he hadn't died so tragically."

Grimacing at the topic, Alfred casually looked at the pictures framed on the mantelpiece. They were all photos of Francis from the time he was a baby to the present. Alfred snorted at a particular photo of Francis looking like a girl in what looked like a light blue dress. He was looking off to the side, laughing. Joy was etched into his face and Alfred could see a bunny held in a child's hands just on the edge of the photo. _It must've been his best friend since he's an only child._

Moving to the photos nearer to the present time frame, Alfred found a picture of Francis dressed in a familiar dark blue uniform, suit tie and all, looking all suave and flirty. He grinned and mentally noted to himself to ask Francis if he knew Arthur, then he realized that Francis was already 24, long graduated from that school. Arthur was, maybe around his or Mattie's age. Probably the same age as Mattie, seeing how scrawny he was. Alfred frowned, _he needed fattening up!_ And that's another mission Alfred is going to undertake, since he had already accomplished the task of befriending Arthur. Well he got him to notice him anyway. That counted as friendship right?

He wandered back to the old people's group and noticed that Mr. Bonnefoy's grandmother (_What was her name again?_) was a bit teary eyed. He moved closer in time to hear her say, "... was such a lovely child. He would come over all the time and help me with my embroidery and knitting. Even when Francis started gallivanting around with that rough German boy and that friendly Spanish boy, he would still come over and... And help me with my roses," she finished in a sob, flinging a quivering gelatinous arm to point out to the garden.

Alfred rolled his eyes discreetly as he handed her a napkin from the table. There were already wine stains on it but he was pretty sure she wouldn't mind. Then Mr. Bonnefoy's grandfather was speaking, "When I was still working," he looked at Alfred through wine-glazed eyes, "I was the town doctor you see," he continued. "I was frequently called to their house because he was such a sickly baby. We didn't even expect to see him live through his first year. But he was a survivor. As a child, he would get into such trouble with his brothers, getting involved in their rough-housing even with his delicate constitution, playing pranks on his parents and the servants. I think his parents were a bit relieved when our young Francis arrived and befriended him."

"Ah yes," chimed in his Gran, "The little one was running a bit wild through the village then. But even so, he was such a sweet child." Then her face darkened, "There were some in the village who shunned him and called him a changeling. Spread rumours about him playing in the forest with the fae. Spread lies about a hobgoblin keeping watch over his house."

Mr. Bonnefoy's grandfather, (_Pierre!_ Alfred recalled triumphantly), "The children in the village got influenced by the superstitions of their ignorant parents, and so they picked on him whenever his nanny's back was turned." He gestured towards Gran, who nodded.

"But he was such a brave child!" she continued a bit drunkenly, "He fought back, and though he was frequently smaller and weaker than the bullies, he was fiercer and more determined. Plus he had learned to fight dirty from his older brothers. Ah that lot, they loved him dearly though they showed it in strange ways."

"I was there when he was born you know," Pierre leaned conspiratorially to Alfred until he could smell the wine in his breath. "He was so small and so blue..! I had thought he was stillborn at that time. But then he just... breathed. And it was like the whole forest, the trees, the air, the ground, breathed with him and his cry shook the earth. Do you remember that dear?"

He turned to his wife, who was already snoring on the couch, head tilted back and mouth open. Alfred could see her dentures. Pierre gently kissed her cheek and turned back to Alfred. "She was also my nurse back then. It was raining hard that day, the fog was also particularly thick. We got called out by a little man in a in a funny little suit." He paused, "Come to think about it, after he led us to the car where Elizabeth was giving birth, he disappeared. The car had stalled while they were on their way to the hospital, we didn't have mobile phones back then and the poor lad and his mum would've died if we hadn't gotten to them on time."

Gran smiled fondly at Alfred, who couldn't hide his sleepiness and yawned. Rubbing his head, she nodded towards Francis' direction, "They adored each other. Francis was homesick for France and the little Arthur was so grumpy when meeting strangers, they had a fight the first time they met. Arthur had even shot toy arrows at Francis and refused to go near him until he gave him a bunny for his birthday."

Alfred straightened up and blinked at the mention of "Arthur". _Francis had an Arthur too?_

"Arthur was the only child in the village that Francis would talk to." Pierre interjected.

Gran laughed, and then hiccupped slightly, "Oh pardon me," she blushed. "Francis was such a snobby child. He critiqued everything about the other children's hair, clothes..."

Pierre giggled, and Alfred got googly-eyed at the spectacle of a **man** giggling like a naughty little girl. "The other children got sullen and ignored him, little Arthur was the one who actually talked back to him."

A loud snore from the other side of the room interrupted their conversation. Mr. Bonnefoy had fallen asleep on the settee, Francis was lying on the floor with his head on Mattie's lap. Both were also asleep. A quick glance at the clock told him it was nearly midnight.

Gran got up slowly and stretched. "Well Pierre, it's time to get my boys home. Please tell Marianne that we had a lovely evening."

"I shall," Pierre replied, also getting up. Alfred could hear his joints creak. He walked across the room and gently shook Mattie's shoulder.

Pierre and Mr. Bonnefoy walked the three of them out to the gate, Francis had kissed Mattie's cheek goodbye before he groped Alfred and then laid his head on his great-grandmother's lap on the couch.

Mattie's cheeks were red, but Alfred didn't think it was still because of the alcohol.

"So..." he began mischievously, but Mattie elbowed him sharply in the ribs before he could finish.

"Shut up," his brother muttered, looking away to the side of the road. Alfred was too tired to continue teasing him, and he was also preoccupied with thoughts about Francis' **own** "Arthur", that he didn't notice Mattie stiffen beside him and gasp.

Matthew stood stock still. He saw a vague figure standing under a tree on the side of the road, looking up at one of the brightly lit windows of the second floor of the mansion. Moments later, the figure vanished into thin air, and then Francis appeared by the window, silhouetted by the light from inside the room. He saw Mattie and blew a kiss at him. Matthew smiled weakly and waved back, and then he ran to catch up to his family.

A/N: **Wéatácen** means "sign of grief" in Old English.

I'm crossing my fingers that I will be able to find a suitable replacement for my laptop tomorrow. My old one had finally kicked the bucket (it was really ancient). I've just finished this story tonight due to the kindness of my flatmate who let me borrow hers.

2,903 words in this chapter excluding the A/N... XD I'm improving on my word count!


	5. Chapter 5: Híwræden

Chapter 5 Interlude **Híwræden**

Saturday dawned bright and sunny. Sunlight spilled golden streams of liquid warmth onto the sleeping faces of her angelic boys. Unfortunately the clock is ticking and there are chores that needed to be done. She called their names gently in an attempt to awaken them from sweet slumber.

A few seconds passed. Minutes. She was getting impatient as the kettle suddenly let out a shrill whistle from the kitchen.

She raised her voice a few decibels and firmly shook the couch they were on. The angle of their positions on the couch looked painful; both of them will wake up with back aches and perhaps stiff necks as well. She never should've let them drop onto the couch the moment they got home last night. She had forgotten that it had been years since she was able to lift them up and carry them to their bedrooms. Though, she supposed, it was her own fault that they got into the wine. Ah that was a superb vintage; Francis really knew how to please a connoisseur.

A loud snore interrupted her thoughts, and a vein throbbed in her forehead when she saw one of them scratch lazily at his groin. _Oh dear!_ She had forgotten where she had placed her glasses. Without them, she (shamefully) could not distinguish between her two grandsons when they are both are so _**still**_. Her eyesight has been failing her for years now. Why last night while walking home, she had fancied that she saw her dear Arthur by the road looking up into Francis' window.

Shaking her head sadly, she mused that it must have been the wine and the memories that had fooled her old weary eyes. Heaving a sigh, she shook the shoulder of the nearest grandson more vigorously.

He fell off the couch with a loud **thump** and hit his head on the carpeted floor. She gave a horrified gasp and immediately went around the couch to check up on him. He merely rolled under the said furniture before she could reach him, and then the crisp sound of snoring started back again.

A snort drew her attention to her remaining grandson perched on the couch. He started laughing and laughing. Barely even drawing breath, he gasped and hung his head off the couch and pointed at his brother. Looking back at her, he wheezed, "Gran! Gran did you see that? Hahahahaha! Mattie's so weird! He.. He.. Ahahahaha! He could sleep through anything! Hehe! Didn't even… *cough cough cough*"

Making a fond tsk-ing noise at a bleary-eyed Alfred who had choked on his breath while laughing, (now that the mystery as to who is who was now cleared) she went around the couch again to where Matthew was sprawled on the floor and set to waking him up. Once the boys were fully awake and had gone to brush their teeth, she poured herself a cup of tea and opened the curtains to let the sunlight in.

_Ah.~ This will be such a beautiful day, _she smiled into the sky.

They had a traditional English breakfast, complete with scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, bacon, mushrooms, baked beans, hash browns, and half a tomato each. Alfred was scarfing down seconds of everything, only to stop with an exaggerated choking sounds when Mattie mentioned _**what it was exactly**_ that black pudding was made of.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" he shouted at Matthew from across the table, accidentally spraying Gran with bits of scrambled eggs and bacon.

Mattie merely shrugged and calmly poured another serving of maple syrup over his pancake dessert. "You never asked."

"Graaannn~~~" he complained to her, "Mattie is being mean to me! ~~~"

Wiping her face free from the greasy bits of food, she sent a warning glare to Alfred, "Manners!" she instructed. "Sometimes I wonder who really is the older of you two! Matthew, you can start cleaning upstairs. Alfred, since you made this mess, you can clean the downstairs and I shall do the laundry."

"Can I also do the garden Gran?" Alfred asked eagerly, bouncing a bit in his chair at the prospect of being out in the sun. And never mind that the temperature never reached more than 15 degrees.

She paused in picking up the used plates, "Maybe tomorrow or next week, we still have shopping to do."

"Shopping?" both boys echoed with identical expressions of dismay.

"For Sam-.. Halloween." She corrected herself on time.

"Awesome!" Alfred punched the air in glee. "Can we pick out the candies Gran? Are we going trick-or-treating? Can I dress up as cowboy?"

"May we have pumpkin pie Gran? And jack-o-lanterns?" chimed in Matthew, less loudly but with the same level of excitement.

"We'll see. Now off with you, the sooner the chores are done, the sooner we can get our Halloween supplies. Then I shall be going to the village council meeting afterward. Would you mind terribly if I volunteered you two to chaperone the children tomorrow for the trick-or-treating?"

"Of course not Gran! You can count on the hero!"

"Can I just stay home and keep you company Gran?" pleaded Matthew, using violet eyes to create the ultimate doe-eyed effect. "I would rather st…"

"Don't worry Mattie!" Alfred interrupted cheerfully. "The hero will protect you and the kids from all the evil monsters!"

Matthew looked like he wanted to slug his brother. "Shut up Al! You're interrupting me again. Besides, it's not like I'm afraid of ghosts."

"W-who… Who said anything about ghosts?" Alfred's voice rose an octave higher as the dreaded "g-word" was mentioned. "There will be no ghosts! Ghosts don't exist! They're not real!"

"Of course there will be ghosts." He replied matter-of-factly. "It's Halloween. There already were ghosts prowling around the village last night, looking for scared children to take away and eat their souls! As a matter of fact I even saw one last night!"

"You're lying!" Alfred looked about ready to cry.

"No I'm not." Matthew sniffed. "I bet you would be his first victim since you're such a scaredy cat!"

With a battle cry, Alfred launched himself at Matthew and the two went down to the floor, struggling and cursing.

Gran sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off the impending headache. She loved her grandsons, she really did. She just wondered how in the world they managed to act like five year olds, despite both of them being just a couple of inches shy of six feet.

She took a sip of her now cold tea and heaved a sigh. The chores can wait. Outside, the birds were still singing and the sun was still shining. And most important of all, her precious boys were both wonderfully, wonderfully alive.

A/N: _ sorry for the fail chapter guys. I was so distracted by my new laptop.

This baby is such a pleasure to play with… *¬* Ahem. I just felt like writing from Gran's POV for a change. Next chapter will be back to Alfred's.

**Híwræden** means family household in Old English.

Nations' height I got from this nifty fan-made website. /characters/

Matthew's height is, presumably around Alfred's since he wasn't listed in the page.


	6. Chapter 6: Samhain

Chapter 6 Samhain

_**Fear.**_

_He could sense it in the erratic thrumming of the heart underneath his head. Could feel it in the rapid rise and fall of the chest against his cheek. His senses spiralled out into the darkness, finding solace in the person who held him. And then a voice was spoke to him in a whisper of a bird's wing in flight. __**Mother.**__ She was… She was… Bleeding. Bleeding droplets of red petals on her gauzy white gown as a shower of heavy, heavy magick rained down upon them. The palace was trembling, he did not understand._

_She was speaking rapidly, luminescent green eyes filled with tears. Teardrops then fell on his tiny cheeks as soft white petals. Her voice was harsh and terrible as she wove a spell from a book. A flash of light, a final kiss on his cheek. Then suddenly there was the cold and the pain. Grey murky painful coldness surrounded him. His tiny spirit wavered at the loss of his mother's life-giving warmth and a sense of disconnectedness filled him. He floated loose in a void separated from his body. His soul quailed in the dead silence of the dark waters which had suddenly enveloped him and… Someone else. His baby thoughts sent out an enquiry of his own magic. And then a face appeared in his mind's eye. __**Guardian.**__ Said the thoughts of a bearded man with eyes of mischief and gold. Though the gold was muted and there were no mischief in those eyes right at that moment. There was only…_

_**Fear... Desperation…**_

_The heart of the body holding him speeded up and he could almost smell the apprehension radiating from his guardian. __**Fear.**__ Seeping into his body as the cold held them in its fatal embrace._

_Then suddenly there was sound. Glorious sound. But the air was a strange uncomfortable mix of harshness and muted colours. He could feel the aberrant weight of his being in this new place. He was cold, he wanted his mother. He was so tired._

_**Flicker…**_

_His spirit wavered like a flame on a candle's wick. The wind was too strong… But suddenly he felt whole again. Thrust into an unknown shell. A fragile, brittle shell that smelled like the edge of death. He felt uncomfortable, like he was in the wrong skin. But then he breathed… And he could feel the earth sustaining him. There was magick here. Rooted deep into the very bones of this land. It sparked his own spirit and enflamed his own magick into bursting forth._

_But it was too much. He had too much. His new body was not suited to his fae spirit. His entire being hurt, magick was bleeding from his new body at a very high speed. The pain was almost too much. He took another deep breath and wailed. He cried his displeasure and pain to this strange and harsh new world. Waves of his magick, his soul poured out into the rain, the fog, the trees and air. The very ground they were on. It sent a shockwave through the area. The crossroads where they were on was bathed in his life force._

_Breathe… Rain… Fog… Crossroad…_

_Someone was crying. Hot salty tears fell on his face. He blinked and squirmed. __**Mother?**__ But no, the vague fuzzy shape above him was not the same powerful image usually projected into his mind by his mother. He could however see his guardian hover just above the shoulder of the yellow-ish blob that held him. He could hear voices now too. Harsh and guttural, so jarring after being used to the soft melodic voices of his kin. He whimpered, and joy and laughter greeted him._

"_Arthur… Hello Arthur… Welcome to the world." A hoarse whisper fell on his feeble human ears. And then lightning flashed._

***BOOM! CRACK! RRRUMBBLEE…***

Alfred jerked awake on his bed. Heart pounding a loud percussion in his throat, he shivered as a gust of wind rattled the windows. Outside a storm is raging, suddenly sprung up from the clear sunny day of yesterday. His right arm felt numb, and he saw the book he was reading the night before clenched tightly in his fist against his chest.

A Midsummer Night's Dream by Shakespeare.

Arthur's book.

_Arthur._

Man that was a freaky dream. Weird and vaguely disturbing. He felt like he was outside of himself looking into somebody else's dream. _Arthur's?_ a thought slid across the surface of his mind.

He was tempted to blame it all on the book. After all, he had fallen asleep while reading it. But although there were also fairies in that book, there were no descriptions of a green eyed fairy queen, and he was pretty sure Titania's description was very different from the one he had seen in his dream. The glow of the digital clock on his bedside table told him that it was four in the morning.

He got up and walked to the window. The storm had calmed down whilst he was deep within his thoughts. Light rain was falling gently on the window pane. His breath fogged up the glass he was leaning on. Idly, he traced Arthur's name on it and wondered where he was at that moment.

_Sleeping?_ He snorted. _What is Arthur?_ He still refused to acknowledge the existence of ghosts. But fairies are acceptable. He guessed. His mind still refused to make any sense of all the hints and vague _**otherness**_ he gets whenever he's with, or even just caught a glimpse of the other boy.

It's not logical. His mind said. Though the whispers at the back of his thoughts wove questions like, _"Who is Francis' Arthur?"_ and _"Is he really dead?"_ and _"Why does he always walk in the rain to or from the __**crossroad **__where they first met?"_ and _"Does it really matter?"._

His head hurt at the tangle of questions. And his _**heart**_ hurt at the thought of never being able to be with Arthur. If he was a ghost… If he was a fairy…

_No._ He refused to believe it. Arthur will be his friend. Arthur is human. He's real. He has a book. He has the same school uniform Francis had. Ergo, he goes to school. He is real. Alfred had gotten into a fistfight with him. He was solid. He even managed to pull Alfred out from the river. _What does he want?_ If Arthur was a ghost… Then Alfred would have to help him move on and go into the light. Because that's what heroes do. If he moved on, he will never be his best friend.

Banging his head softly on the chilled glass of the windowpane, he forced himself to breathe and calm down. No. He told himself firmly. It's the book and that stupid dream that's giving you ideas. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep and you will go look for Arthur in the morning. You will find him and give him candy and you will watch him eat it. Ghosts can't eat. They don't grow, and Arthur is obviously a growing teenager. They're transparent and weird looking. Arthur looks normal, except for his eyebrows. But those weren't ghostly either. He's a grumpy boy from a posh school; the same one Francis had attended. (His thoughts skidded away from the implications of that line of thought.)

He's not a fairy either. Sure he's on the short side, but fairies were supposed to be hand-sized and have transparent wings. Fairies also wore those little transparent dresses and they have magic wands that sparkle. And Arthur isn't any of those things _**at all.**_ Though his thoughts paused on the imagery of Arthur in a fairy's dress. He giggled and went back to bed.

_Tomorrow,_ he thought sleepily, _he will find Arthur and share his candy with him. And return that creepy book of his._ As he drifted back to sleep, a soft whisper floated from the book held in his hand. Golden eyes peered at his sleeping face and bow-shaped lips grinned.

*sssssss*

When Alfred woke up, it was almost noontime. The sun was shining harshly into his room and his limbs were aching and his face felt sticky from drool. Apparently, sometime after he fell asleep, he had curled himself around the book and drooled on it.

He made a face at the stain on the leather cover. Oh man, Arthur is going to be so pissed. On the other hand, it meant that the other boy would be speaking (yelling) at him the next time that they met. He smiled. No ignoring the hero then. All the better.

The day looked bright and happy to Alfred. The last vestiges of the dream mere wisps of stray thought in the corners of his mind. Running downstairs for lunch, (he had missed breakfast) he hollered a greeting to the house in general before coming to a full stop in the kitchen.

Sitting on the sink were three perfectly carved pumpkins. THREE large, perfectly _**carved **_pumpkins. Eyes widening in disbelief, he caught sight of Matthew at the kitchen table holding a paring knife and trying to hide a smirk from him.

"Wha-… How..? How could you?" Alfred yelled at his brother. He had wanted to carve his own pumpkin.

"Now, now Alfred. Matthew and I tried to wake you up earlier but you were so deeply asleep that we went on ahead without you. Never you mind dear, you can set these up on the porch later and light them." His Gran soothed him before he could launch himself at his brother, who was now hiding behind a large bowl of dough.

*ssssss*

The day passed quickly enough, and before they knew it, it was already time to meet the children at the council hall to begin the trick-or-treating. In the end, Mattie agreed to come along because Gran had informed them that Francis will be picking them up and accompanying them around the town.

And then before he knew it trick-or-treating was over and they were escorting the children one by one back into their homes, each one of them laden with candy and toffee apples. Once the last of the children were back safely in their own homes, Mattie gallantly offered to walk Francis back to his own house, stating that there were already ghosts and goblins wandering around, and he wasn't referring to the children in costumes.

With a flirty smile and a saucy wink, Francis declined said offer, much to Alfred's relief, who only wanted to go home and flop down on the couch. He was drained by the little terrors. Each of them demanded piggy-back rides, played hide and seek while walking from house to house. The trick-or-treating had somehow turned into an exhausting baby-sitting job, only without the pay. Grumbling at Mattie who had somehow managed to remain invisible to the children, he trudged sluggishly back to their house. He waved tiredly to Francis who waved back and then blew a kiss to his brother _*yuck*_ before walking off rapidly towards another direction. Were he not so tired, he would've noticed that Francis was heading towards the forest. Mattie stood by and watched Francis worriedly before he shrugged and caught up to Alfred.

"Don't you want to go with your boyfriend?" Alfred asked lackadaisically. His mouth and brain were on auto-pilot. Dealing with twelve children all at one time tended to do that to people.

Mattie elbowed him sharply and said, "Don't you think it seems that he was looking for someone?"

"Hmm…?" Alfred replied, yawning. "Sry bro… Talk to me later when I'm more alive."

Mattie looked at him with a thoughtful look on his face. They walked back home silently, each lost in their own thoughts.

*ssssss*

Alfred suddenly woke up to the dark room. It was pitch black, darker than the usual night. Oh yeah, Gran had told him about the black-outs during Samhain. Apparently, it was an ancient tradition that predated the invention of electricity. Long before technology was born, during Samhain, every light, whether it were torches, fireplaces or candles, were extinguished and a bonfire was kindled. The entire village would dance and celebrate with the visitors from the Otherworld and then all the hearths in all the homes would be lit from the one bonfire which would have been blessed by the Fae. It was to ensure the bond between this world and theirs, as well as the bonds of the families within the village was kept strong.

In modern times, people no longer held on to such traditions, but apparently the Fae or the "Good folk" as his Gran referred to them, still believed in it, and thus extinguished all the lights in the village during the All Hallows Eve. Will-o-the-wisps were commonly found this time of the year, she had said. Those were fairy lights which had been lit from the one bonfire on Samhain.

Of course when she had been telling them the story earlier, Alfred was more interested in going to his room for a nap while Mattie was listening attentively. He figured that the village merely had a faulty electrical system and the willow-the wisps were just swamp-gas, or something.

Fairy lights, Gran had said. If he believed in fairies, would they lead him to Arthur? He felt a little depressed, he had been thinking a bit, and he felt sure that the way he kept thinking about Arthur bordered on obsession. Or maybe a crush. Seriously, he had talked to the guy maybe once, and that's it. _Green eyes vivid against a pale face…_ Green eyes that had looked so lost and lonely. So yeah, Alfred F. Jones had found a damsel-in-distress and heroes were born to save them. He wasn't stalking Arthur or anything. No siree! He is just going to rescue him from eternal loneliness!

Rolling over in his bed, he reached under his pillow for the book that he had intended to return to Arthur. He was a bit disappointed he that he wasn't able to see the boy today. Stroking the leather cover with his fingertips, he was startled when he suddenly felt a "tug". Shocked but unable to resist it, the feeling led him to the window. He can hear the bells ringing… Eleven times, the bell rang. It was an hour before midnight. A soft whisper turned his eyes westward. There, he could see a faint light glowing in the deep black darkness of the rest of the village. There was a sense of urgency radiating from the book, and he looked at it in surprise.

He stood stock still for a moment, listening for any signs of life in the house. Silence and a faint snore greeted his ears. Ah, they're already sleeping. Quickly, he picked up his bag of candies and stealthily made his way down the stairs and out the house. This was really difficult since he could barely see anything, even with his glasses on. But no one stopped him and he was able to see the faint white of the road ahead of him even in the dim light of the moon.

It was surreal. There were tufts of fog lying on the edges of the road, and whispers of mist were drifting across his path but strangely, he felt no fear. The moon painted the trees a stark black, and everything else was washed in white and blue. He felt like he was walking in a dream. His footsteps were muted and he could only hear silence where there would usually be the songs of the night birds and the hum of insects.

Suddenly, a figure appeared from the mists in front of him. Alfred felt his mouth run dry. He stood rooted to the spot until the figure was directly in front of him.

It was Francis, and yet it was not. His fine costume from earlier was flecked with dirt and mud, there were bruises on his face and arms and he had a black-eye. What was frighteningly different about him was the sad achingly empty look in his eyes. The same eyes that Alfred had seen back when he had attempted to go out into the rose garden. Francis barely acknowledged him, eyes focused on something far away, tear tracks barely visible on his cheeks, twinkling in the faint moonlight like the shattered reflections of a frozen star. A hollow smile was drawn on his face, not even reaching the distance in his eyes.

Alfred stood still as Francis walked passed him like a man in a trance. Unseeing and perhaps uncaring, he walked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he vanished into the mists in the direction of his own house.

Alfred stood there for a moment, he thought about calling out to Francis but the fog was suddenly rolling in from all directions, blotting out the blackness of the night, encasing him in soft grey mist. It was cold and it was creepy. If any ghosts came out at him in that moment, he would scream loudly and then run away. Arthur or not.

Suddenly, a glimmer of gold lifted up from beneath his jacket. He froze as threads of golden light swirled and formed a ball that floated before him. Then a flash of light flared from behind the trees. Green and eerie muted by the fog, it beckoned to Alfred.

The golden sphere bounced a bit in the air before moving forward towards the green light. It hovered several feet from the ground and was approximately the size and dimensions of a dinner plate. There was another flare of the green light. _"Impatience"._ And the golden ball immediately raced towards it, forcing Alfred into a run.

He ran and ran until he could feel gravel beneath his feet. The soft crunch of his footfalls was dulled by the fog surrounding him. The surroundings seemed familiar. The sick feeling in his chest fought fiercely with the excitement welling up as he recognised the crossroads. He gathered his bearings and squinted in the gloom. _Westward was this way_, he hoped. The gravel gave way to the lush carpet of fallen leaves and he just _knew_ that Arthur was nearby. He could almost smell the roses and ocean-scent in the air. There was a whispering in the trees. It coalesced into some sort of chant in Arthur's particularly accented timbre. He could almost make out the words…

_*"Flare up and burn it down,_

_From corner to corner with that hellfire,_

_Don't leave a single trace,_

_Burn down even their souls._

_Flare up and burn it down,_

_Answer my calling right now,_

_Burn down those fools with_

_A crimson flame._

_(Santra ba~dra winza~na~ wonpa~to~rana intrakantera_

_Santra ba~dra winza~na~ wonpa~to~rana intrakantera)_

_Flare up and burn it down,_

_From corner to corner with that hellfire,_

_Don't leave a single trace,_

_Burn down even their souls._

_(Look...!_

_For the sake of my terrible revenge, I'll cast a curse with all my power!_

_I summon thee from the distant earth! Come forth!)_

_Flare up and burn it down,_

_Answer my calling right now,_

_Burn down those fools with_

_A crimson flame!"*_

Shocked beyond belief, Alfred stepped out of the shadows and into the clearing on the riverbank. There was a bonfire a few paces away from the gigantic rosebush. Shadows from it danced wildly in the crimson light, skeletal arms reaching across the grass towards him.

Alfred stomped to where a cloaked figure was hunched over the flames. The golden sphere hovered uncertainly, trailing behind him as he advanced. "What the hell was that Arthur? Were you trying to summon a demon or something?"

Emerald eyes blinked at him owlishly from underneath the dark cloak. A feeling of satisfaction passed through Alfred at the annoyed expression that stole across the other boy's face. Then Arthur saw the golden sphere which looked like it was attempting to hide behind Alfred.

"There you are!" He said sharply. "I was looking all over for you. Come here, time is a 'wasting." He beckoned to the little sphere. Alfred almost felt sorry for the little guy.

"Hey! We came here as soon as we could. Are you some kind of a witch? Warlock? Hunter thingy? 'Coz man, that would be so cool!" He babbled at Arthur who had stood up and, yep, he was wearing a dark green cloak which hid his clothes. He looked exactly like he did in one of Alfred's daydreams when he was in class. The only thing missing were his bows and arrows.

One massive eyebrow lifted and Alfred grinned at the cuteness of it. "Oh, and I brought candy." He showed Arthur the bag of candies he had stashed in his pocket. "They're a bit squished, but we can still share!"

Arthur was still staring at him, which, frankly speaking, was starting to creep him out. Then he saw a couple of marshmallows poked onto a stick and were starting to blacken from the heat of the bonfire. "I have candy too you git." He finally spoke.

Alfred was relieved at the implications of that. It meant that Arthur was real. It meant that somebody had given Arthur some candy. Candy is a physical thing that people, the kind that were alive, has. Looking at Arthur's get-up, he presumed that he had also gone trick-or-treating.

He sat himself in front of the bonfire and warmed his hands. Arthur settled in beside him and picked up the stick with the charred marshmallows. He hummed the tune of that creepy song/chant that Alfred had heard earlier. The golden blob hovered uncertainly between them.

"So," Alfred asked conversationally, "Who gave you that candy? It never crossed my mind that a grumpy guy like you could go trick-or-treating tonight. You really must've scared off a lot of people with your eyebrows, huh!"

One of those said eyebrows twitched violently, and Arthur looked to be on the edge of saying something to him, but then the orb, which Alfred had completely forgotten about because it might break his brain, suddenly swirled rapidly and expanded until a bearded little man with gauzy wings was revealed. "My prince," he addressed Arthur, bowing low. "Time is indeed of a 'wasting, but I must beg you to take caution. You cannot go forth by yourself into the Mag Mell. The palace has long been abandoned, and wild things grow there."

"Holy shit!" Alfred jumped up and pointed at Arthur. "You're a fairy prince! Oh. My. God! Dude! That is so cool! Not as cool as being a Warlock Hunter, but still cool!"

"Shut up boy," said Arthur testily. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I came here to look for you." Alfred said earnestly, blue eyes dancing in the bonfire's light. "You… you've always looked so lonely and whenever I see you walking in the rain, I thought that you needed a friend. I… I am lonely too, but at least I have Mattie and Gran, and you didn't seem to have anyone. Well, except him," he pointed to the little man who grinned at him.

Arthur looked at him, really looked at him since the very first time that they had met. His green eyes glowed with a certain light in them. _Fairy lights_, Alfred's mind supplied, though he knew the term probably applied to a very different thing. He could almost drown in the green. It was like looking at the leaves in summer, dappled by the sunlight rippling through the boughs of some ancient tree. Young and ancient at the same time. But there was such a deep well of emptiness and pain within their depths. A shade of the blackest sorrow lurked in the vivid emeralds.

Then suddenly Arthur hunched down and hid his face underneath his hood, leaning his forehead on his knees. His hands gripped the fabric of his cloak tightly, so tightly that his knuckles shone white in stark relief. His shoulders shook in silent sobs.

Alfred knelt down beside him, horrified that he had made him cry. Arthur attempted to swat his hands away but eventually accepted the fact that Alfred was going to rub soothing circles on his back while he cried his eyes out. After a while, he even started to lean into his hands, and Alfred took it as a sign to gather up the other boy into his arms.

He felt so fragile! It was as though a breeze would be enough to sweep him away. Sweep him out of Alfred's arms and into the cold and misty darkness. He tightened his arms around Arthur and rested his cheek on the tousled hair. He felt the softest touches of something light and feathery falling on his arm. He looked down and saw white petals pooling on the grass underneath them. More of the ivory-white petals drifted down like snow from Arthur's face, which was tucked under Alfred's chin so he couldn't actually see it.

Alfred was dumbfounded. It was like in his dream where the fairy queen had been crying petals. The scent of roses permeated their surroundings now and Alfred breathed in deeply. _Wait… In the dream white petals were tears, and red petals were… Blood? He had seen red petals (blood droplets?) before. Were they from Arthur?_

Arthur was merely shuddering softly now. The blizzard of ivory petals had slowed down almost to a standstill, though he still had his hands loosely holding on to Alfred's jacket, his nose was pressed to where the book was tucked. Eventually, he pulled back and kept his face facing away from Alfred, who went back to rubbing circles on the small of his back.

A swarm of questions buzzed in Alfred's mind. His thoughts were all awhirl with the mysteriousness and strangeness that's happened tonight. _But friends accept each other no matter what_, he told himself firmly. Arthur had already acknowledged him; the rest will be a piece of cake.

"I'm not human." Arthur's soft whisper drifted over the roaring of the bonfire.

"No shit, Sherlock." Alfred grumped good-naturedly. "I already knew you're one weird kid since day one!"

Arthur flashed him a dirty look before saying scathingly. "Very polite of you to interrupt while another person is speaking."

"Why thank you." Alfred grinned magnanimously. Arthur looked adorable with his eyes all puffy, hair rumpled, cheeks and nose red and diamond-teardrops clinging to his lashes. "You're so cute Artie! I'm glad you're a fairy though, and not some creepy scary ghost!"

"… Who said I wasn't?" a massive eyebrow was lifted at him. Alfred watched it rise in fascination.

He blinked. "Wasn't what?"

Arthur's eyes practically sparkled in evil glee. "I'm a ghost Alfred."

"GYAAAHHHH! G-Ghost? There's a ghost?" Alfred threw himself at Arthur, clinging and whimpering desperately. "Where? Arthur save me from the ghost!"

Arthur answered him with strangled noises that sounded furious. Alfred looked down and realised that his arm was choking the other boy. Abruptly he released him, laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his head. "S-sorry about that. Don't scare me about g-ghosts! That was so mean Artie!"

"You daft moron!" His face was all red and scrunched up in anger. Alfred was overcome with desire to just squeeze that cute face. "I AM THE GHOST. And don't call me Artie."

"Oh haha! Nice try Artie, ghosts aren't real. Besides, even if they're real, they would be like, all transparent and stuff. You're solid. I held you in my arms you know," he said, nodding his head sagely.

"I'm tangible because it's Samhain and my magic in this place is strong enough to sustain a solid form, you git!" Arthur shouted, face glowing red up to the tips of his ears when Alfred mention the held-you-in-my-arms bit.

"Oh really?" Alfred plopped back down onto the grass and took a bite out of the blackened and barely recognizable marshmallow on the stick. "Prove it. If you really are a ghost, tell me how you died."

They stared at each other, blue skies into green forests. The wind picked up and the trees whispered amongst themselves. The little man settled himself comfortably on the bench behind them, and waited with a smile on his face. Suddenly, a bell started tolling in the distance, twelve strokes. The witching hour had arrived. It was already Samhain.

Arthur's green eyes clouded in sadness momentarily, but then he looked back to Alfred and nodded. Determination sparked in the viridian depths. "It started when Francis met Antonio and Gilbert…"

*ssssss*

A/N: Finally! I'm so sorry for the late update. _ I was drunk for the past three days, most especially last night. I was beyond smashed. Anyway, enough about that. This baby is 4,752 words!

Samhain – a Gaelic harvest festival held on October 31-November 1. More information can be found here. .org/wiki/Samhain

I'm pretty sure you all know the lyrics to England's Marshmallow/Evil Demon Summoning song. I got it from here: .com/wiki/England's_Evil_Demon_Summoning_Song

Mag Mell – is another name for the Otherworld. It means "Delightful Plains". More information this way .org/wiki/Otherworld

Belated Happy New Year Everyone!


	7. Chapter 7: Déaþcwealm

Chapter 7: Déaþcwealm

Alfred raised a hand to stop him, "Wait, wait wait! So you know Francis? Francis Bonnefoy? Long blonde hair, scraggly beard, weird clothes and that faggy perfume?"

Green eyes narrowed and looked away to the side. Hurt bleeding raw in his expression. He clutched his arm and smoothed down the sleeve. Alfred could see the tension in the white knuckled grip. Then Arthur bit his bottom lip violently. A spot of red bloomed into the wound and a crimson petal dropped to the ground. Another red drop welled up immediately, and then another. Falling slowly like dying leaves.

"Hey! Stop that!" Alfred scrambled to his knees and reached out a thumb to smooth over the wound. He pressed the thumb right over the bruised and bleeding lip, absently noting that the skin even felt like the velvet of real rose petals. He stroked it once, marvelling at the texture. Stroked it again, slowly and wondered if it tasted like blood_. Ghosts weren't supposed to feel like anything, so, would they taste like anything?_

Leaf green eyes widened for a fraction of a second before Arthur smacked his hand away and turned a brilliant shade of red. He scowled mightily at Alfred and growled.

"Uh," said Alfred intelligently. Snatches of that drunken conversation back in Francis' house drifted across his thoughts. _Shit, Arthur I'm sorry_. Out loud he said, "Uh, right, never mind. You were saying?"

Arthur leaned away from him, trying to re-establish distance. Alfred scooted closer anyway and smiled goofily, ignoring the fact that his face was probably as red as the other boy's. He had waited so long to be with Arthur, to talk with Arthur and damned if he would let any strangeness keep him from getting close.

Finally, Arthur gave him a tired glare and allowed him to sit practically on the other boy's lap. "Get off me Jones."

"Nu uh… The roar of the bonfire is too loud. I can't hear you properly if I stay away."

Arthur's eyebrow twitched in annoyance. _Ahh… So cute._ At least he doesn't look so sad anymore. Annoyed is definitely better than sad in Alfred's book.

Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably and glanced at Alfred through the sides of his eyelashes. Then he kept his gaze into the fire as he started talking again.

"I had always known that I was different. Though I look like the rest of my family, something had always kept other people at bay. I had thought, for a very long time that my 'gift' was merely stronger than that of my brothers."

"Uhm, are your brothers ghosts too?" Alfred could see a vein throb on Arthur's forehead even before he finished the question. He supposed, it _was_ a stupid question, but he just really liked riling up the other boy. He flopped onto his back, laid his head on Arthur's lap and smiled up at him.

Again, a flush stained Arthur's cheeks, reaching up to the tips of his ears and he quickly looked away with a muttered "Git" under his breath. Alfred kept the smile on his face even though he knew that his face was red too. He could feel the heat on his face, a testament to the fact. Though he was sure it was just their proximity to the bonfire that prompted that.

Arthur's low pleasant voice tugged him away from his musings.

"It's complicated, but most of my family can see things other people can't see. My father and almost all of my brothers have this thing… They called it a 'gift' so let's just leave it at that. Fae would often come to our house and visit. Gnomes, trolls, they often passed through our garden. I used to be so scared of the fact that I was the only one who ever seemed to see them. Really see them and converse with them. My family said, they could see glimpses, hear whispers, but that was all. But they know that they exist, other people weren't so understanding."

Alfred made a soft noise of sympathy that made Arthur look at him, his eyes green forests lost in the distant mists of memory. He sighed and closed his eyes and continued. "The other children in the village feared me. So my parents had me home-schooled. That was until Francis moved here with his father. He was pushy and annoying, but he accepted my, quirks and never once had he shown fear of me."

Arthur's lips quirked up in a funny little smirk, "Except maybe for my temper and fists. But we got along, better than I had ever gotten along with anyone else. My brothers often swing between being such horribly jealous assholes because my parents doted on me, to being incredibly and smotheringly protective whenever I'm around other people. Francis was neither. And I had looked up to him."

"Could he see g-ghosts too?" Alfred asked him earnestly, suddenly curious. The wind picked up and the soft whispering started up again. Arthur broke his gaze and cocked his head, listening to the murmurs brought by the wind. A small smile graced his face and Alfred marvelled at how nice it looked. Arthur really should smile more often.

But the smile was sad and empty, he noticed after a while. Then he whispered something. Something that was carried away by the wind. The rose bush swayed in the breeze and sighed in sympathy and Alfred strangely felt lightheaded. Arthur was speaking. His voice low and soothing, but something else was woven into it. Whispers of other voices blended into the cadence of Arthur's words. Light, soft voices with hints of laughter. It reminds Alfred sunshine during a thunderstorm, or the rhythmic babbling of a brook somewhere in a deep forest untouched by human hands. Unseen by human eyes.

Alfred felt his eyelids drift halfway shut. Arthur was looking at a spot to his left and was speaking, but his head felt too heavy to move, and his can't hear anything clearly. It was like his body was underwater and everything on the surface was distorted. There was only the two of them. Only Arthur seemed real. _But Arthur is the ghost here, _he thought hazily.

Then Arthur was looking at him again. He could drown in the green. He felt long elegant fingers tentatively touch his hair, and then a stroke, stroke through his locks and wove intricate patterns with his stubborn cowlick. It felt nice, like a pleasant dream he could fall so easily into. Then Arthur's pink lips shaped words, though Alfred could not hear them. He tried to squint and could just make out, "_… easier this way_."

And then his eyelids fell down like the curtains in an opera and he was just the audience. The whispers and the cold floated down and curled all around him. He could feel their airy weight settling down on his skin, raising goosebumps along their wake.

*ssssss* *ssssss*

A flicker of light turned his head left, and he suddenly felt pain hit his cheek like a sledge hammer. Blinking rapidly to clear his head, he saw a younger looking Francis holding back an incensed Spanish boy. He was speaking rapidly in well, Spanish and was holding a cross pendant into his face and gesticulating wildly. He could only understand one word, **"Demonyo**", which he knew meant, **demon.**

Francis was looking away miserably as he felt himself clench his own fists and fought the tears that welled up into his eyes. He was letting this, this stranger insult him, letting that arrogant German boy point a finger at him and laugh. Laughed at his eyebrows, at his pale pale skin, at his "delusions" that fairies and ghosts exist. Sneered that the Kirkland family always had the reputation of being a bunch of freaks.

He could take that this Antonio believed that he was a witch and a demon, and had condemned him to hell. He could take that this Gilbert mocked his appearance, his family, and his friends.

But he felt his heart shatter in cold, cold dread at the look on Francis' face. He was denying him. Denying the fact that they were best friends. Denying that they grew up together, close as brothers. Denying even the fact that they knew each other. All in the face of his newfound group which they had proclaimed to be "The Bad Touch Trio."

He got it. Even though he had entered this particular school _**because**_ Francis was there, he was apparently no longer needed. He was merely an embarrassing part of a past that Francis did not want the Bad Touch Trio to associate with him. He wanted to shout and scream at Francis.

"_Where was that gentle hand that guided him home whenever his fairy friends had led him far into the woods and he was too tired to walk alone?"_

"_Where was that sweet smile that greeted him whenever he brought roses from his own garden to that old mansion?"_

"_What happened to that lovely voice which crooned sweet French lullabies to him when he was delirious from the frequent fevers which wracked him during his childhood?"_

"_Where was that patient soul which taught him gentleness when all he had known from his own brothers was a violent kind of love?"_

He stood there in silence, trembling in anger and helplessness as Gilbert laughed in his obnoxious kind of way then he was suddenly shoved to a filthy brick wall at the side of the school. He looked at Francis accusingly as Antonio took out a red marker pen from his bag and wrote on his forehead. Green eyes never met lilac when the mocking laughter finally left and Antonio was looking at his handiwork with a satisfied look on his face.

"He looks better with that black eye." A cool silky voice wafted over his ears. Familiar and yet different. The same accent, but the warmth was gone. He could only stare at the ground as they walked away, rough laughter in the warm sunshine made him feel like he was treading on broken glass with his bare feet.

He pushed himself up against the wall, stood on shaky legs and tried to breathe past the sharp pain in his ribs. He could feel the tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he stubbornly held them at bay.

Already, he could feel the clouds gathering overhead, cooling the hot pit of anger that was bubbling up in his chest, leaving behind the cold bitter ashes of vengeance. They would pay. They would pay for taking Francis away from him. But most of all, he would make sure that Francis regretted throwing him away.

It was his first day of school. He had tested out early so that he could skip several grades and go to high school immediately. He had just turned thirteen, and Francis was his classmate. Francis who, at the age of sixteen, was a junior at Royal Goosebury International School. It was supposed to be a happy surprise.

He closed his eyes and felt the rain kiss his swollen face. Felt it hit his brand new uniform. Felt it run down his arm. The arm Francis had flung away as though he was burned when he touched him.

The rain fell harder and the world faded into a mist.

_Flicker…_

His fist hurt from the impact. The satisfying sound of breaking bone greeted his ears. He had finally cornered the traitorous frog alone, without the protection of his so-called friends. Francis looked up at him from the floor, nose bleeding red from the punch. Expression neutral, he said with a flippant wave of his hand, "Your hair is as ugly as ever mon petit sourcils. Maybe you need to shave off the caterpillars on your forehead to reduce your ugliness. You shouldn't try to break other people's beautiful faces to just because…"

He cut off the rubbish spewing from that mouth by drawing back his leg and kicking. He had desperately, insanely wanted to hit and stomp on that face that had haunted his dreams and mocked his memories. Somehow, he missed the face and hit the arms and shoulders instead.

He heard running footsteps coming closer. A roar of rage hit his ears before he was bulldozed onto the floor and he looked up into Gilbert's red eyes.

"No one! No one hits a member of the Bad Touch Trio and lives!" was snarled into his face. He smirked coldly, he already knew their strengths and weaknesses. He _**will**_ get beaten up, he thought as he was yanked by his tie back up into a standing position by Antonio. But he knows he will take them with him. The hex he had placed upon the other boy was still evident in the rashes and cuts running across his right hand. It was the same hand with which he had written "Demonyo" on his forehead a year ago.

It was his second year in Royal Goosebury International School. His stamina was improving and he excelled in sports (football). He also played rugby on his spare days, though he never lost his slight frame. He was also the vice-president of the student council and was at the top of his class. No one knew that there lurked a darker side to the loud and often verbal clashes between him and the infamous Bad Touch Trio. Also, his grasp of magick was improving. Especially since he had found a little helper locked in a piece of pottery in the crossroads where he walked to and from the school. Life was good.

_Flicker…_

He was now the president of the student council, despite his being as young as the freshmen he was going to welcome into the school this afternoon. Despite vehemently denying his nervousness, he knew he was fooling no one as he kept tugging his tie loose and then tightening it up again while pacing back and forth in the council room. Lilac eyes tracked him across the carpet. He waited impatiently for the insults and rude comments to pour forth from his newly sworn-in vice president so that he could fling a curse or a hex or both at him and lose his anxiety in the process.

He sat heavily in his too large chair behind his too large desk and brooded. Suddenly, footsteps glided across the carpet towards him. He looked up and prepared for a fight.

Green eyed widened when a long, elegant finger tipped his head up and soft lips glanced briefly across his forehead. He froze in shock.

A whisper and then he was gone, the scent of lilac lingering in the air. "_I'm so proud of you mon cher._"

_Flicker…_

It was raining. Raining hard, thunder rolled across the heavens. He walked towards the crossroads and felt the power thrum through his veins. Every single drop that fell on him echoed delightful shivers of SELF through his body. He felt like he was finally in his own skin. He could feel his soul sing in the rain.

He knew that Gilbert had seen his grimoire and stolen it. He was afraid that Antonio had seen the book and burned it as heresy or somesuch. For it was heresy. It was a book of black magic, a relative of the malevolent and evil Necronomicon. Many people had killed and been killed while in possession of that book.

It was a miracle that he had somehow acquired it from a shady dealer in London on his sixteenth birthday. He was sceptical at first on its authenticity, but after he tested it on his roses and watched them grow and writhe into horrifying forms, he was satisfied with it. Of course it could have been a lesser book, and the spell was made stronger due to his own magick and the influence of the approaching Samhain.

_Damnit!_ He cursed himself for leaving it yesterday on his classroom desk of all places. He was only glad that the Cultes des Goules was written in archaic French.

Francis had unexpectedly left him a note in his locker asking him to meet him by the river on Samhain, saying that he had the book. _Thank the Fae that the book wasn't written in Spanish_, he thought fervently.

He mulled over the strange happenings over the past few months. Practically all the work in the student council was dumped on him _because he was so diligent and hardworking and he didn't have friends to go partying with anyway_. He stomped and cursed but in the end accepted it, because what they had said was true. Everything was true. He didn't have any friends because he was wary of trusting anyone and getting betrayed, and so he had thrown himself into his studies, his work and his sport.

And so there descended an unexpected truce between him and the Bad Touch Trio. He was too busy with the student council to skulk around and hex and curse them. Antonio had fallen in love quite hard with a surly Italian freshman, and was thus frequently missing except during football practice. Gilbert eventually acknowledged his "awesomeness" in the said sport after several games and the two of them often played tag-team strikers during the school's matches. Francis began to exploit his natural charm and flair to reel in the girls (and boys) of their school into his bed, but he actually was the only decent goalie in their school team. They grudgingly made the foundation of their school's football team, albeit they still got into fights frequently.

Sometimes though, he could sense a deep dark loneliness lurking underneath the suave playboy persona of his vice president. Even so, during the truce, they tended to avoid each other.

He stepped into the clearing and found Francis sitting on the bench, looking out into the cold grey river. He whispered a charm that lightened the rain inside the clearing, moisture rolled away from the site in waves of thick fog.

Francis stiffened at his approach. Sombre violet eyes met startled green. Francis' eyes were rimmed in red, and despite his almost reflexive pleasure in seeing the other's pain, he felt a sick feeling start to swirl in his stomach. _What's wrong_, he wanted to ask.

Instead he kept his scowl and his silence. They were the masks that had served him well. Francis only nodded at him and suddenly Gilbert and Antonio appeared behind him and clamped down some sort of chains on his arms.

Icy cold pain shot through his limbs and he cried out in agony. The chains were somehow imbued with magick. A filthy, roiling magick that reminded him of madness and death. The air smelled of rotting flesh. It reminded him of the time he had accidentally touched a snake when he was still a child. Slick, cold and deadly to the touch. It felt like… _Cultes des Goules_.

Solemn green eyes on a tan face looked down upon him and suddenly he was reminded of that day three years ago. Antonio was still wearing the same crucifix, but the look in his eyes was different. Instead of loathing, his eyes were filled with pity. Instead of violence, Gilbert's hands were strangely gentle was he took out a black marker pen and started drifting the nub on his skin, drawing light, soft marks upon his arm. Francis was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair and murmuring loving nonsense.

His senses were all screaming about the wrongness of the situation. But he had not sensed evil intent from any of the three. He writhed on the damp cold grass, heart racing as he tried to move his arms and legs to fight back. His body felt numb, as though his spirit was slowly disconnecting from his flesh…

_NOOO!_ Every fibre of his being was protesting the separation. He recognised the words that Francis was breathing into the air. He could feel the edges of his soul melt into the air, the trees, the very ground he was pinned on.

Francis was crying. He could feel the hot sting of the teardrops drip onto his cheeks, achingly soothing in contrast to the cold rain falling from straight above them. Fear… An emotion he was never really familiar with. But memories of the first time he had felt such fear from the heart of the one holding him came into the fore. _It wasn't the first time that this had happened_, the dark, quiet places of his mind whispered to him.

Francis was afraid for him. _Help me…_ He pleaded silently. He could feel the hot trails of his own tears slip from the corners of his eyes, could hear the strangled whimpers coming from his own throat. _If you still care for me… Please stop them…_

"Hushh… Hushh mon cher…" soothed Francis as he brushed the tears rolling down the still cheeks. "It will be alright. Everything will be alright. We will save you from this demon that you had sold your soul to."

"…?" his thoughts were lost in the howling maelstrom of pain, fear and confusion. _Demon?_

"We shall exorcise you and then you will be free from the evil influence." Antonio's earnest expression was marred by the hint of madness that flickered in his eyes.

Gilbert laughed, though his laughter was subdued and almost friendly. "We don't want to lose you man. You're like an honorary member of the Bad Touch Trio!" Abnormal flashes of colour oscillated with the red of his eyes. Faint sobs floated through his hearing.

"You will be free of the demon mon petit lapin…" Francis' gentle voice washed over his failing senses. It made his skin crawl. There were screams and insane laughter woven through the comforting cadence of his voice. "We will save you, because you are our friend."

A glimmer of dark energy pulsed on the ground beside him. With great effort, he was able to turn his head a fraction of a degree, enough to see the heavy leather cover of the grimoire resting under Francis's hand. The Cultes des Goules was throbbing with unleashed hunger. The protective runes etched into the spine of the book was torn right through.

_Those morons, they've unlocked the seals! He will kill them!_ He summoned enough of his anger and helplessness and summoned his guardian. With a desperate cry, he heaved himself upright. The chains bit into his skin and drew blood.

Antonio and Gilbert yanked violently at the chains and he heard the loud crack of bones snapping like dry twigs. He screamed in pain and shock. Both his arms were bent at unnatural angles. Blood was flowing freely down his arms from where the chains had cut him. Crimson arterial blood gushed into the grass and soaked into the ground beside the iron bench.

Arms hanging useless at his sides, he retreated slowly, warily. Eyeing the grimoire still clutched in Francis' grip, he tried to formulate a plan. They were startled by the sudden materialisation of his guardian. It rushed towards them in sound and fury.

He ran recklessly into the mists, blindly searching for a path through the trees towards the crossroads. There, he will have a modicum of safety. His own magick was stronger there. He will have a chance. Flashes of light went off in the clearing, then a cry of anguish was heard over the dull silence of the fog.

Heart in his throat, he stopped when he suddenly ran straight back into the riverbank. Francis was waiting for him, the Cultes des Goules spread open on his hand. Unnatural light flickered from the book, reaching towards him. He backed off slowly until his heels hit the edge of the riverbank, blood welled out of his stinging wounds and flowed into the ground, leaking into the river churning just a few centimeters behind him.

Antonio and Gilbert materialised from the fog, twisted shadows writhing on the ground upon their approach.

"Wake up!" he screamed hoarsely, pleadingly. In the course of the year, he had developed a grudging respect for the three of them. And he knew it was mutual, despite their verbal clashes. The grimoire was affecting their minds.

"Francis…Please, wake up!" he sobbed as Francis moved closer to him, tipped his head up and kissed his forehead softly. So heartbreakingly soft. He could feel his tears start to fall again. Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath his feet and he plunged into the freezing water. The current wasn't particularly strong, but he could not even move his hands. The surge twisted his broken arms around and he almost blacked out from the sheer pain. He sank deeper into the river.

Abruptly, he felt a splash in the water above him, then another, and another. Three other bodies had hit the water. Panicked, he struggled more furiously, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain and the dread that they will catch him.

But black spots had begun to dance in front of his eyes, _oxygen running low_, he thought fuzzily. His lungs burned, water entered his mouth with every frantic gasp. The world was red, swirling around him in the running water. His life spun out of his body in the scarlet tide.

Then, long blonde strands of hair drifted in front of his face and he gave himself up into the despair that threatened to swallow him. Arms encircled him gently and he felt himself moving up towards the surface. Three voices were panicking and shouting. Somehow, he was glad that the strange insanely calm and disturbing vibes were gone from those three voices. He could feel the real Gilbert in the harsh shouting, the real Antonio in the rapid outflow of Spanish prayers. Francis… Francis was silent. _How bloody typical of him to annoy me even at this moment._

Ah, but he was so tired. The cold had burned his skin and left him feeling numb. The pain was gone, he could not feel his arms. He felt his thoughts drift into space. Finally heard Francis' voice dimly, like he was at a great distance from his ears. He probably was.

_Oh bugger, the last words he heard were in __**French**__ of all things… Archaic French…_

The world faded to black.

*ssssss*

A/N: I'm very sorry for the late update! I hope the length of this chapter makes up for it.

This chapter is dedicated to Jazzchyk. Belated Happy Birthday!

**Déaþcwealm** means death by violence in Old English.

Royal Goosebury International School - _ this was just a lame reference on a conversation I had with Conjure Lass on an entirely different topic. My brain picked up the "goose" in goosebumps and ran away with it.

Necronomicon – a fictional book pertaining to black magic and summoning the Old Ones. Wiki link this way… h t t p : / e n . w iki pedia . org/ wiki / Necronomicon

Cultes des Goules – is another book of black magic. More information can be found here… h tt p : / / en. Wikipedia . Org / wiki /Cthulhu _Mythos _arcane_literature # Cultes_ des _ Goules


	8. Chapter 8: Dægsteorra

Chapter 8 Dægsteorra

Warnings: Mood whiplash straight ahead.

There was a silence so profound he caught himself straining to hear. Something, anything to break the suffocating heaviness of the loss of sound. There was darkness so absolute, he cried out in the loss of the light and dark. Arms reaching toward the heavens, he gasped and then his world shattered into splinters of bleak colour and harsh music.

Alfred gasped heaving breaths, hands clutching at his chest, heart hammering in fear. The world around him was seething in turmoil. Harsh needles of stinging rain were striking down from the grey skies unto his clothes and exposed skin. He shivered in the cold and the pain. _Arthur_, he thought. _Where was Arthur?_

A spot of red caught the corner of his eye, vivid against the oppressive grey of his surroundings even through his fogged up glasses. Red stood defiantly against the obscuring curtains of rain. Blood pounding, he stepped closer, one foot before the other, slowly, carefully, mindful of the fact that he could barely see anything beyond the reach of his arms.

Twin crimson pools were spread underneath each Arthur's lacerated and broken arms, blood fanning out from his limp body. Carmine wings for a broken angel.

Alfred felt his heart stop. _NO!_

He recklessly charged closer to the riverbank, heedless of the churning water rushing up towards Arthur's injured form. He knelt beside him, liquid red soaked into his jeans and stained his hands.

Arthur's eyes were blank and staring. Green eyes dull and hollow in the absence of spirit. The raindrops were falling into his open eyes and Alfred resisted the urge to close them. _It must hurt to have rain hitting your eyeballs,_ he thought, hysteria slowly rising up in his chest. But he didn't want to do it either, because closing the eyes in the movies often meant that it really was the end. He didn't want Arthur to die. Didn't want to let go. He leaned over Arthur, moving so that his body protected the other boy from the onslaught of heaven's tears.

His eyes shied away from Arthur's fractured arms. Bile bubbled up in his gut, and his breathing grew ragged. Up close, Arthur's pale face was ashen, lips slack and tinged with blue. There was no emotion in the normally scowling face. The falling rain slicked his untameable hair down. His eyebrows were relaxed and peaceful. He looked like he was sleeping. But he was so cold. So cold and still. He pressed closer, until the frames of his glasses were touching Arthur's face.

Tears pricked the corners of Alfred's eyes. He cradled the cradled the body closer still, almost covering it with his own. His breath puffed soft feathers of mist onto Arthur's smooth cheeks. His tears started to fall, hot against the frigid air of his surroundings.

He rested his forehead against Arthur's and let his tears and his breath try to warm the still face. If he ignored the rain, the blood, the broken arms… He could pretend that Arthur was merely sleeping after a long night of talking about movies and heroes and the differences between the American and British English. Just like in his daydreams during class…

_Daydreams in class…_

_**Flicker…**_

He opened his eyes blearily and winced as the early morning sun stabbed his retinas with its bright and cheerful rays. The grass was cool underneath his cheek, dew studded their slender forms, sparkling like diamonds. He sat up and glanced at his surroundings.

The river was slow and peaceful, deep waters ran at a leisurely pace. There was no sign of the bonfire that was there last night, not even ashes. Sweeping his hand on the ground to support his weight as he stood up, he encountered something cool and fluffy to the touch. Startled, he blinked at the huge ring of mushrooms surrounding him. A multitude in varying sizes and shades of white, brown and grey, they formed a fence against the glittering frost that littered the riverbank and encircled the spot he was sleeping in.

Dew on the inside, frost on the outside, the mushrooms were standing like little soldiers on guard_. A fairy ring_, he mused. _Just like in the stories Gran used to tell Mattie and me._

Of course those stories usually came with the warnings to stay away from fairy rings lest the fairies kidnap you and feed you to giant cannibalistic trolls. Or something like that.

He stretched slowly, letting the warmth of the sunlight ease the stiffness in his joints brought by the dawn's chill. His heart was still heavy from that dream. _Or was it a dream?_ A multitude of thoughts swirled around his mind and he forcefully blocked most of them lest he started crying again or did something drastic, _**like storm into Francis' house and beat the living daylights out of him**_. He could feel the dried tear tracks on his face, sticky and poignant upon his cheeks. He shivered as he recalled the cold and the stillness.

Soft whispers and quiet laughter drifted to his ears again. He squinted in the glare of the weak sunlight reflected in the frost and dew, and could barely see tiny floating forms dancing in the air, circling around his now-empty bag of sweets that he had brought last night. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the long and cold trek home. And the possibility of being scolded by Gran for being out all night.

_Arthur was dead anyway_, he told himself. He was already dead when they first met. Regardless of his status, (dead or alive), they can still be friends. He cheerfully waved goodbye at the thorny rosebush, and kissed one of its white buds for good measure. He could just imagine Arthur's cute blushing face when he did that.

The nightmares and analysis of last night could happen in some other time. Today, he had celebrated Samhain with Arthur, and they had a deep and meaningful conversation. Well, most of it was in a dream sequence and they only spoke a few actual sentences to each other, but Alfred was never one to look at the gift horse in the mouth.

Arthur trusted him enough to tell him his secrets. He bet he was the only one Arthur had talked to since he had died. His mind still skirted around _that _particular issue and the accompanying slew of emotions. It was a giant leap towards friendship. Besides, Alfred could already imagine certain perks in having a ghost as a best friend.

Golden eyes peered from the thin branches of the rosebush as he picked up Arthur's book and tucked it back into his jacket. The dew-laden leaves rustled in a sigh of amused exasperation as he walked away with the book and its hidden secrets.

A strong breeze swept through the clearing and a swirl of green, green rose leaves spiralled up into the blue heavens. Alfred smiled up at the lone diamond left shining up in the morning sky.

*ssssss*

A/N: **Dægsteorra** means daystar in Old English.

Thank you to all the lovely people who left their comments on the last chapter. They inspired me to finish this one as soon as possible. XD I wasted a rare stunningly sunny day by working inside the house on this chapter today. Ahh… I hope this Indian Summer lasts through the rest of this winter season. *keeps fingers crossed*


	9. Chapter 9: Ærist

Chapter 9 Ærist

Title: Ælfen Rain

Chapter: 9 Ærist

Genre: AU, Romance, Adventure, Supernatural

Pairing(s): USxUK

Rating: PG for this chapter.

Warnings: angst, mentions of death

Summary: Alfred is curious about the boy in the rain. For this chapter: The first half of the flashback chapters in Arthur's POV. Arthur wakes up to the rain. Beta-ed by the fantastic Ellarose C. 3

He floated in the void.

Unaware.

Blind.

Deaf.

Unfeeling.

Uncaring.

Thoughts flitted across the surface of his consciousness as the world turned without him. Eons passed, seconds flew by with gossamer wings. He slept.

Sometimes, he could remember what he was, who he was. Snatches of memories ghost through him during certain times of the year. It was during these times that he struggled so hard in vain to keep the remnants of his personality intact in his core. Samhain, Beltane, Midsummer. These were the times he could fully manifest outside of the rosebush; could exist separate from the shard of magick tangled up in the dark earth and thirsty roots; could remember the being that he was.

He felt himself fading, ebbing and rising with the seasons. He walked alone in the rain… if that's what he really did. His feet did not touch the ground, but he felt whole in the rain.

No, that was wrong. He wasn't whole. He hadn't been whole for a long time. He knew that. He just had forgotten. It was frustrating during the times when he _could_ remember.

He used to have a purpose. There used to be a reason for the endless and repetitive walks he was compelled to take along familiar roads. He was searching for something: something to take away the screaming emptiness inside of him. It was somewhere out of his reach, but it existed. He just needed to put the pieces together. When he remembered. If he remembered.

The falling leaves swept by his form, drifting over his shoulders like a shroud as he sat underneath a rosebush. His rosebush. Him.

They were one and the same, but it wasn't always so. He had existed in this state even before the plant had sent out its roots into the soil. He had "watched" when three boys had dug through the soft earth during the rains. The leaves were falling then too. They were in mourning.

He knew them. He was angry. Furious. He remembered things when he felt emotions. But the memories slipped away as fast as the leaves fall from the trees during autumn. Numb and achingly empty, he slept.

*ssssss*

The world was turning again. He felt it in the leaves and the branches that functioned as his senses. Samhain was approaching. The first of the autumn rains called him out from his floating existence.

He manifested in the downpour. Every drop of rain, every molecule of mist, pregnant with his stored magick coalesced into his physical form. Opening his green "eyes" for the first time since Midsummer, he allowed a faint smile to grace his face. It was time to find the other pieces of the puzzle. Time to end his meaningless existence in the limbo. He resumed his search.

*ssssss*

There was a voice speaking. A disturbance in the repetitive sanctuary of his endless walks. A shard of loud sunshine had penetrated the rain and fog of his being. It was annoying. The annoyance was something he both loathed and cherished at the same time. Loathed because he can remember loving solitude and quiet when he was still himself. Cherished because it meant he could still feel emotions. It made him real. He existed. He wanted to hold on to that.

But the lethargy was stronger. The loss of will to care. He was merely a shade walking in broad daylight. No thoughts. No feelings. The sunshine sliced through the grey monotony of the flat world he moved in, then slipped away, back out into life. A place he no longer had the will to touch. Then the compulsion for the search consumed him again and he forgot about the noise and the colour of the sun.

*ssssss*

The conditions were perfect. In the past years, _(ages?),_ this combination had never happened. The full moon was ascending to the heavens, Samhain was looming in the horizon, the cool temperature of the autumn evening and the proximity of the river water was conducive for fog. The land was rich and fertile with the magick, and he used it to his advantage. Carefully, slowly, he concentrated on remembering a simple spell that he had often used way back when he was still alive. With great effort, he lifted the old and somewhat rotting pages of his favourite book from underneath the ground. He spent silent minutes, strained into aching hours in the disentangling of the fragile book from his, (no, the rosebush's_)_ grasping roots. He existed as a separate entity.

For now.

Golden light swirled gently outward from the cover of book when it was floating in a lazy wobble above his "hand". His guardian was also awake; he now has a helper to find… He made a small noise of frustration, and the leaves rustled in agreement. It was frustrating. The pieces still eluded him. Memories were still locked away. No matter, he has one of the Shards in his hands now. He had the time. The world was still turning, if the conditions prevail, he may yet regain himself.

A leaden numbness tugged at his awareness. _Ah_, he had exhausted his reserves. Hungry for the feel of it after so long, he let the book drop down into his hands. It fell straight through his translucent hands and onto the damp earth with a dull thud. Bits of dirt and stringy torn roots fell away from it upon impact. He "smiled" and allowed himself to drift back into the rosebush. Samhain was yet to pass. Retrieving the book was accomplishment enough.

*ssssss*

He drifted into awareness in the late afternoon rain. He had already "walked" a good way around the village, his senses told him, though he could not recall anything about it. The sun was yet to set, but the harvest moon hung round and ripe just above the horizon. He looked down upon his "body". Pale skin, dark blue uniform, long fingers on elegant hands. He drank in the details greedily.

The falling rain had formed puddles on the street he was walking on. Like a vain girl in search of a mirror, he found himself catching glimpses of himself in the puddles on the street. Green eyes, huge eyebrows, tousled blonde hair, he desperately tried to wrap the sights up into bundle of magick and store them where he could easily access them. _Magick…_ He contemplated this for a while.

"…_Bending the laws of nature! It's wrong! It's against the church!"_ an indignant voice rose from the deep recesses of his memories. He grasped at it fervently, siphoning it directly into that little ball of details he was collecting. _Green eyes, a cheerful smile and tanned skin_ came into mind. Though the words were rough and the tone accusing. _A student from Madrid. Great kick, fast runner. Football. _Almost immediately, hurt, anger and violence exploded across the images. He retreated from that line of thought. The feelings invoked churned within him, made him feel sick and hollow.

A school bell chimed behind him, bringing recollections of being a student and images of students sitting in class. Curious, he allowed himself to stop and turn around to look behind him. He was astonished when he was able to. This incoming Samhain was different, he thought with a rush of excitement and no small amount of hope. He was actually able to break away from the path that he was usually forced to follow. Though, this wasn't his school. This school never used to be here when he was… When he was still himself. When he was still alive. He refused to give in to melancholy. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to think that the recollections and the observations were actually jolly good things. He can both remember, _**and**_ think his own thoughts! So what if he was dead?

With that, he continued on his way back to the river with a spring in his step. It was when he had already sat down on the bench and picked up his book that he noticed that he had fully manifested. He picked up the book, not by the use of levitation spells, but with his "hands". He frowned a bit at this. The logical part of his (currently non-existent) brain told him that it wasn't possible. It was the top-of-the-class, student-council-president part that asked the question. He had no physical body to speak of.

He snorted at his own musings. He was a witch. Ghost. Person. He dabbled in dark magick; he should know better than to question illogical things… but first things first.

The shabby state of disrepair of his favourite book offended his sensibilities. He suddenly felt the overwhelmingly strong urge to bash the face of the boy who had suddenly popped into his head. A frog, of all things. Though he was in agreement of bashing in the faces of frogs in general, it was the memory of a blonde boy kneeling on the damp earth digging a hole in the ground and dropping this particular book into it that made his blood boil.

It made him crave for tea. He gently ran his hand along the dirt and tears of the cover of the book, internalised the weight and texture of the book, and persuaded himself to remember how it originally felt like. He took a deep breath, two. He didn't need the oxygen, but he needed the calm of breathing.

He whispered the words and cast the glamour over the book, restoring it to the same lovingly maintained state before it was lowered into the ground.

Lowered into the ground in lieu of his body. A funereal attended by three people and a multitude of the fae. _Where was the real funeral then?_ He never knew. He was starting to fade at that time. His energies were too scattered from his death.

And there he went again, giving into his naturally gloomy nature. _Come on old boy, stiff upper lip and all that,_ he sternly commanded himself. He opened the cover of the freshly restored book and started to read out loud. His voice came out hoarse and reedy from disuse. _And the lack of a voice box_, he thought sarcastically, but he gamely tried again.

"Thesus:

_**Now, fair Hippolyta, our nupital hour **_

_**Draws on apace; four happy days bring in **_

_**Another moon-but O, methinks, how slow…**_."

*ssssss*

He lost himself in the returned pleasure of reading, in the sound of his own voice being heard by his own ears. The small matter of their implausibility was easily brushed off. Then suddenly, his world shifted when the book in his hands was yanked out of his grip.

Shocked, he looked up into eyes as blue as the skies slowly deepening into the twilight above them. He shivered. _Cold._ It was suddenly very cold, clear and sharp at the same time. He could acutely feel every muscle in his body tense. Almost feel his heart jump into his throat. He felt anger and confusion bubble up from somewhere within his mind. He vaguely noted the words that the other boy was saying. His hands clenched spasmodically into fists, heart rate accelerating… _But I have no heart!_ He laughed hysterically within his mind. Defaulting to his favoured method of dealing with unpleasantries when he was still alive, he swiftly brought up his fist and punched the intruder on the face.

"…the hell? I was just being friendly!"

Feeling sheer amazement at the solidity of the punch, he felt his heart race with a manic glee. Punch, kick, an elbow to the gut, it felt so real! The memories came back: wrestling with his brothers, laughter and tears and shouted curses, brawls with Francis, and the rest of the Bad Touch Trio. All of it roiled and crashed into his mind, body automatically acting and reacting to the stimulus of the fight.

Suddenly the ground gave way beneath them. Cold, murky water closed over his head. _**Red.**__ A crimson darkness swirled around him in the running water. Sheer pain exploded from his arms and an agony burned in his lungs. He was screaming…_

With a gasp, he willed himself out of the water and onto the riverbank. Trembling with fear and a detached kind of fascination, he watched the other boy flail around in the mucky water. Saw the silt rise up and envelop the body. Felt the clouds race overhead in vindictive excitement.

_Drown him_, an insidious whisper curled around his mind. _Let him feel the fear and the pain_, said the yawning hunger which strained across the emptiness where his soul and spirit used to be. No, where his wholeness used to be. _Absorb him, _it tempted.

He trembled; gaze kept impassive as the boy in the water thrashed in vain to free himself from the sticky mud. It would be so easy. So easy to take his life, his energy. _Why should he live where I have died?_ Something within him screamed at the injustice and in hunger. Magick pricked at his senses, a cold complacent presence that settled on his shoulders like a cloak. An energy source, _**prey**_, was right before it. Suddenly, a head broke out of the water and blue eyes stared right at it. At him. He shivered at the sheer _life_ that blazed so defiantly from those eyes. Life. That strength of light and warmth could keep the insanity from nothingness at bay for a very long time indeed. And he was so hungry for life.

He reached out an unsteady hand to push the struggling head down. His hunger made the river swell in anticipation. And the boy yelled as he slipped on something on the riverbed. He grabbed the hand instinctively, unwilling to lose his prey. A strong hand gripped back, almost crushing in its grip.

Awareness flooded back and he hastily pulled the other boy towards him, up onto the bank. That was close. That was a really close call. The mindless monster, the malevolent wraith that he feared he will become had reached across and almost pulled him into its embrace.

How many times in the past had this happened? The question clawed guilty wounds across his conscience. He had no awareness of anything but the present. Had people been killed before so that he could manifest? He was solid now, but he was unable to explain why this was so. Perhaps it had been building throughout the years, the life draining from victims, pooling into a reservoir that enabled him to remember himself. Ebb and flow, he felt his senses spread out into the river and the trees, the fog and the cold afternoon breeze. He was them, and they were he. He felt death, more recent than his own in this place. Guilt pricked tears from the corner of his eyes. His non-existent eyes, he thought sardonically.

"Oh, hey, um, I'm Alfred. Alfred F. Jones! Pleased to meet you!" a voice interrupted his guilt-laden thoughts. Blinking in surprise, he saw a hand outstretched toward him. Beyond that hand, a cheerful smile was being directed at him. Blue eyes blazing with life, he thought absently, the hunger dampened down by his own guilty conscience. He kept staring at the other's face. He did not know this boy. But the utter cheerfulness, the noise and the brightness projected so forcefully at him was somewhat familiar.

Then he remembered the voice that had sliced through the gloom of the rain. _Ah, so this was the one. _He had to admire the absolute flagrancy of his presence; he even made an impression on Arthur even when he wasn't entirely within his mind at that time.

He felt a tug at his own hand and was startled to find it cupped gently in the other boy's own, a strong, calloused finger tracing letters onto his palm. _Warm_. He looked up and was immediately discomfited to find the other boy, _Alfred_, his mind helpfully supplied, so close to him. Earnest eyes looked at him in expectation and warmth. He felt his cheeks flare up in embarrassment. There was electricity in that gaze; it made something in him twist in a shiver of excitement. Here was a being that was neither fae nor ghost and could see him; he was uncertain how to react.

Yanking his hand away, he hissed, "Git!" and stomped off. Away, anywhere but where that boy was. _His almost victim_. Thoughts whirled around his head again and he forced himself to relax in them instead of pushing them away. Laughter floated from the riverbank. He shut his eyes and curled his fingers into his palms. Blood welled up from a tiny cut created on his skin. He watched a red petal float down onto the bench and felt the breeze stir through the branches in sympathy. Alfred was such a beacon of concentrated energy, there was a hint of darkness prowling around the edges of his spirit but he still managed to blaze like the sun. His energy tantalisingly drifted from his skin like the scent of a particularly appetising meal.

Fog was already rising from the damp ground; tendrils caressed his trouser legs as he walked towards the road. A low moaning cry echoed across the darkening sky. _Ah_, his "neighbours" were prowling about. The first stirrings of Samhain had awoken them too, these restless hungry wraiths with no more traces of humanity left. Ghosts driven to madness by the weight of malevolent emotions and loss of self. Spirits that howled in rage and sorrow, they sought something to ease the aching emptiness in what passed as the shell of their human hearts. They lured other beings and drained them of their energies. Vicious cycles of hunger and hurt perpetuated by time because other beings could never, ever replace themselves.

Looking back, he saw the other boy stand up and stretch. This one would make a nice meal for one of them, he thought, irrational possessiveness coming to fore. After all, Alfred was almost _**his**_ prey, he should at least see to it that he came to no harm. With that firmly in mind, he stopped at the crossroads and waited.

"Well then," he said impatiently, glancing up when the vague grey forms skulking in the mists suddenly stirred into a restless watchfulness all focused on a spot behind him. "Come along, you might get lost in the fog by yourself."

*ssssss*

_Doesn't this boy ever shut up? _He thought irritably, and walked faster in hopes of losing the rapid volley of questions directed at him. The wraiths were vigilantly trailing behind them, weaving across the road and fields. The temperature was dropping rapidly from their presence. Surely a person who not only could see him as a solid being, but also touch him, must also be able to sense the presence of the other occult beings in the area.

Apparently not, as he was still smiling and looking at him even though the ghosts let out a particularly loud wail when they crossed the ley line* separating the fields from the main road. It was raining softly there, but Arthur felt himself _lessen_ a bit. The magick here wasn't as strong. He slowly became aware of the dampening of his senses; the rich delicious aroma of the earth faded from his smell, the sharp lines of the world dissolved into a dull nothingness, the soft hiss of the falling rain was muted until it vanished from his hearing. Only the warmth that Alfred was radiating remained. Oh, how he longed to stay in the warmth. The hunger was creeping back; he trembled in the face of its pervasiveness.

A horn blared in the fog, and twin lights appeared in the road. The bus had arrived.

Hastily, he pushed Alfred into the doors and stood still, bending all of his energy to remain solid so that he could see the other boy speed safely away. The silly boy was waving at him from the window of the bus.

The fog from the fields had crossed the road, bringing with it the prickling flavour of heavy magick. Wraiths swept around and over him in a thick grey mist, howling and keening out their despair. Arthur allowed himself a small smile. Today, he was not one of them.

He let go of the threads of energy that had knit him into solid form and allowed the effluvium to spirit him back to the nothingness.

_Warmth._

It had been such a long time since he had felt warmth. An eternity since he had touched the warmth of another person, and millennia since he was touched by the warmth of being acknowledged. He exists!

He tried in vain to keep the memory of Alfred's bright smile in his grasp, but he was fading again. Cold silver strands of it slipped through his fingers, draining away into the darkening sky. No matter. Samhain was still yet to come. He was now awake.

*ssssss*

A/N: I apologize for the very, very late update… Life happened (and oh what a wonderful life!). xD This chapter was particularly hard to write out. Next chapter! Francis and Samhain. I wanted to provide a little background first before moving into the real action of the story. ^^

**Ærist **means Awakening in Old English.

*Ley Lines are alleged alignments of a number of places of geographical interest… that are thought by certain adherents to Dowsing and New Age beliefs to have spiritual power. More info on Ley Lines can be found here - .org/wiki/Ley_line


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